An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

Put Up a Parking Lot

So I’m lying there on this table, except it isn’t a table but more like the hybrid offspring of a dentist’s chair and a psychiatrist’s couch, very cold and covered in butcher paper (which is appropriate on so many levels), and I’m thinking that this lady is doing a disproportionately large amount of talking to actual ripping. And I’m wondering if she knows that hot wax has a tendency to dry, like concrete.

And I’m remembering that my bikini waxer in Los Angeles, while a total airhead and one-dimensional in many respects (she once referred to a compilation cd as a copulation cd), somehow understood this principle of physics. She knew that if she left steaming wax on the body too long she’d pull off shards of quivering skin along with the wax. And I’m missing her like a soldier of war, tired and fearful, misses his wife and kids back home.

And just as I realize that this new waxer woman hasn’t started removing the wax, I also realize that she’s waving the waxing wand around like she’s conducting an orchestra, bringing the alto saxes up to an exploding crescendo, and she’s spilling stray wax all over my bare knees.

So I look up like a turtle flipped and stranded on its back, just to see what’s going on because I can feel the wax hardening. And suddenly I’m confronted with glowing blue asphalt, two inches thick, the length of a private driveway, bonding to the inside of both of my thighs. And I’m thinking, this can’t be right. I can’t be seeing that.

And I’m thinking, there’s no way she’s ever going to be able to get that off my body, not even if she were a surgeon with a bulldozer, and that I’m going to have two permanent airport landing strips, newly paved, free for landing on the lower half of my body for the rest of my life.

And just as I start to panic she finally stops talking and notices that I notice what she’s doing. And she says something like, it looks a lot worse than it actually is, something a deadbeat boyfriend would say when he shows up to your house late with lipstick on his collar, and I’m totally really not convinced.

And then she says something like, let’s just get it over with, on the count of three: one, two . . . But all I hear is the creaking, un-oiled hinge on the lid of the coffin, and the final snapping shut of death.

So when I say spontanoues bikini wax, I’m talking about the kind where you realize that, oh hey, they do bikini waxes here, right here in a salon next to the grocery store, so while he goes to pick up some milk and bean dip, I’ll just wander over and have my loins systematically and violently ripped from my body.

  • This is why we must choose our aestheticians with more care and scrutiny than we choose our husbands. Or do all that wax and pluck crap ourselves.

  • Tommy

    I hesitate to write you, for fear of becoming the target of some of the most clever ridicule and diatribe on the net. However, for reason now clear to me, the previous e-mail address I had for you is no longer in service, I must. I got into the FBI. I start in January 2003. You are still one of the best writers I’ve read.

  • SnarkyPup

    Hmm. All the (female) complaining about the pain of waxing comes across as kind of … well … weird. Don’t want to get waxed? Then don’t do it. Want to get waxed? Then don’t get all huffy with your boyfriend/husband about how painful it is. Is your boyfriend/husband pressuring you to get waxed and you don’t want to do it? Dump his ass. But don’t go do something under your own willpower that hurts like hell and then get mad at someone else for the pain. Grow the hell up.

  • This one really raised the bar, right? Anyway, I guess I’m trying to tread the middle ground here: no waxing, please, but a little trim (ladies AND gentlemen) can help the medicine, er, go down.

    But whatever you do, keep it clean.

  • Okay. I have to share a story. I grew up on the waterfront of Hood Canal, which is sort of near Seattle. Summertimes were spent in swimsuits. My neighbor, a 40-something redheaded siren with a 70s bush that always looked like it was straining to be released from the sides of her swimsuit, attempted to “trim it up” one day with a pair of kitchen scissors. While doing so, her foot slipped off of her footstool, which caused her to cut off the end of one of her labia. I repeat, she cut off the end of a labia with her kitchen scissors. Need I say more?

  • Also, where do I get Coochy Creme?????

  • Did a little research:

  • marie

    do you think hers are real? My fiance and i can’t decide. he’s been speding alot of time “studying” them.

  • holy airbrush, batman…

  • No amount of hair could ever fend off my mouth. Like a regular brer rabbit.

  • “follicular holocausts” – oh man.

  • Hey Ricky, are you kidding?! YOU’RE asking WOMEN if we’ve ever had a short n’ curly stuck between our teeth? I could read a million of these types of sites & NEVER would I read one that a man wrote discussing how he tried to straighten things out for one of us.

  • Your writing & your wit make me laugh out loud.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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