Yes, I am a coward. However, my vanity far outweighs my fear of pain.
My sister wanted to impress her US-based hubby for their annual grand reunion this Christmas, so she decided to get herself a "brazilian" as a homecoming gift. My fancy ideas of "sympathy" and "solidarity" gave me the idea that, hey, why don't I get one along with her?
I have heard hushed stories and glorious results about waxing, the pain, the torture, the horror. Basically, you're paying somebody to give you one of the most popular methods of torture. It dissuaded me from getting "the wax." My "maintenance" ritual involves depilatory lotions twice a week, and a shave in between. I never, NEVER shave my pubes because it gives me unsightly ingrown hair, and re-growth is a bitch!
So my sister booked us a 5 pm appointment at a salon along Macapagal Avenue. I arrived late, and my sister had already started her waxing.
I was led to a back room, quiet and serene, with low, flat beds. My sister was lying in one of the beds, and she was just done with her procedure. Nervously, I asked my sister if it hurt.
"Of course it hurts!"
"You shouldn't tell me that!"
"But what am I supposed to tell you, that it doesn't hurt?"
Oh boy, if a mother of three says that it hurts, then it must really hurt.
I proceeded to undress myself. I was so nervous I left my clothes on the floor. The friendly neighborhood aesthetician wielded what looked like a giant popsicle stick, with a yellow, gooey substance at the tip. it reminded me of Stickwell wood glue, something which I used repeatedly in making my costumes.
"Is it too hot?" she asked. After receiving no reply from me, she spread the stuff all over my armpits.
I then began to babble to my sister to ease my nervousness. Funny thing is when I am nervous, I tend to laugh. I always laugh during gynecological and breast exams, tests, and stressful situations. Once, I found myself laughing manically as my plane during a trip from Boracay hit rough turbulence. Passengers in the small twin engine hugged each other. My mother looked at me strangely as a gave a really loud nervous laugh.
"So did you get the braz-YEOW!
Insert hysterical laughter.
My friendly torturer showed me the fruits of her harvest: a flat, yellow chia pet. She re-applied wax, and her second harvest yielded hair and small spots of blood.
The waxing in my other arm did not lessen the pain. I decided to grit my teeth and bear it. You're being such a sissy. Women around the world have themselves waxed twice a month, surely you can endure this.
Then they went to my pubes.
Now I'm really nervous.
I asked for a magazine, something to read in my vain attempt to distract myself from the procedure.
She applied a small patch of wax at the corner of my groin, with her soothing assurances that "Pagkatapos nito mam, gaganda kayo. Para sa beauty ho ito." (You will become more beautiful after this. This is for beauty), she pulled the patch of wax in a swift motion, as I yelped and flailed my legs in pain. She showed me the waxed part, a dense forest of inch-long hair, the roots so close to each other that two strands seemed to grow from the same root.
With each patch of hair, I began to ooze cold and clammy sweat. I could feel Lactic acid starting to accumulate in my legs from the stress.
"Kaya mo pa ma'm? Kaya mo pa?" (Can you still take it ma'm?)
Willing myself to continue, I told her "Sige kaya pa, isa pa," (Yes, one more!)
The procedure segued into masochism, with each "Kaya pa?" was met with "Sige, isa pa!"
Finally, when it came to the point of whether or not to take it all off, my torturer said, "Sige na mam, tama na muna. Balik na lang po kayo pag may tumubo uli," as sge gingerly petted my pubic area, as if it were a small wounded animal. (Enough mam, come back when there'e re-growth). She said that I must continue waxing unwanted hair, even if I don't return to their establishment. They stressed that re-growth will be less stubbly than if I shaved or used a lotion.
Wan and weary, I headed home, where a nude Thomas was waiting for me. I promised him a hair-free nookie after the wax, and I told him I was in no shape to do anything. "Oh my poor sweetie,it's so hard to be a girl" as he pet my hair.
Yes, my poor sweetie. *sniff*
Maybe I'll stick to lotions.
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