The accidental brazilian wax.

Ouch.

I feel like it could only happen to me, to get my first Brazilian wax totally accidentally in Bali. I did not, nor haven’t ever really, wanted a Brazilian. But anyway, for anyone else out there who wants to know how (or how not) to have this happen to you, here’s the low-down on the down-low wax.

The whole getting to Bali for our family holiday has been a complete debacle. Volcanic ash. Cancelled flights. Holidays in winter in the city. But we finally made it here last night. Nowhere in the weeks leading up to the holiday, or the three extra days stuck in the wintery city, did I find time to prepare my body for being in the tropics in a bathing suit. Until this morning.

By 11am we’d done nearly everything possible- buffet breakfast, kids in the pool before 9am, walk down to the beach, coffee, small child patting a mangy dog, bartering for stuff we don’t want or need. So then we headed the other way to the small, cheap beauty place for $5 massages. And there, on the menu was waxing. First error – Waxing in a $5 place in Bali. Second error- seeing $5 bikini wax and deciding it to be a good option.

Three daughters all set up with foot massages and toenail painting, fourth daughter getting back massage, me in the “private” room for my bikini wax. I really thought we had it all sorted. The waxer did come in wearing a mask like a dentist or a nurse or a surgeon. I still tried to be calm, even though once I went to get undressed realised I was wearing a full-piece bathing suit and had to strip naked.

We had a conversation where she pulled back the sarong and I pointed out the very obvious pre-existing bikini line and she nodded. Then she bent down, got hot wax on a large kitchen spatula (like for flipping pancakes) and basically took out my entire bush with one stroke. I guess there is no other way to get wax off than to wax off. She waxed off. And then, no matter what I said or how I pointed, she determinedly waxed every single bit of hair off my entire va-jay-jay. But she did not wax my bikini line. In fact, I was having what could only be described as a reverse bikini line – where all the hair is removed from the part that would be covered by your bikini and the bikini line hair is left.

I also am not sure she’s ever had any official waxing training, because although I have never had a Brazilian wax before I do know the basics about holding the skin taut as you pull off the wax and also firmly putting your hand on the newly waxed bit so it doesn’t sting as much. Well there was none of that. And each time I said “that’s enough there, can you just do these bits on the side?” she would nod, load the spatula with more wax and take out my va-jay-jay again. I think she thought I was trying to wuss out. Which I wasn’t (because I am very brave) but seriously, I just didn’t want it all waxed.

Anyhoo, it’s all waxed. It actually cost $12 because it was called a “full bikini wax” not just a “bikini wax”. Like an add-on. Like a bonus. Like the full service. Anyway, my children were on the side of the curtain, and regardless of what I said or gestured or pointed out, there was no way she wasn’t taking it all off.

So it’s done. And I’m on holidays with my children who will freak out as much as I do when they see what’s happened. Even if it was worth it (it wasn’t) the only other person in my life who could possible appreciate it is not here and I’m never doing it again ever, accidentally or not.

It was not on my bucket list, but now I’ve added it so I can scrub it off. Kissing a Brazilian man is on there, but that all seems a bit naff after today.

So here are my three hot tips for not accidentally getting a Brazilian:

1. Don’t opt for any kind of waxing around your bikini area in Bali. Especially if it’s only $5.

2. Don’t take your pants off before the waxing.

3. Don’t do it. Just go to your lovely salon at home before you leave (even if it’s mid winter and means you will have to take your jeans off) and pay appropriately for them to take off just the right amount from the sides. Kindly. Gently. With training.

And you know. Big loves from Bali. It’s happy hour. The poolside waiter is just grabbing me the cocktail menu.

Fleur Porter is a purpose coach, writer and mother of four who lives on the coast in Western Australia. She writes two blogs (because she’s greedy and has so much spare time) and works with women crafting their magic into purposeful business. You can read more of her work at My Ego and Me and The Goddamn Motherworker.

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