Brazilian Waxing and Other Midlife Decisions

A Gen X Woman’s Perspective

Image source freepik

Outside of my local Ralph’s Grocery Store, I was handed a pass for a ‘Free Week at LA Fitness.’ I know nothing is FREE, but after a short dissertation outlining my 32 easy payment options, I joined for the promise of a ‘new, improved me,’ a ‘ME’ that even my friends would not recognize.

Three days later, I found myself sitting on a bench in the women’s locker room of LA Fitness with Zoey; the once steroid-ingested jock of the nineties turned personal trainer of the millennium.

I looked up, and there it was. Zoey had gone for the complete and utter annihilation of hair down there. Not a little etiquette grooming; the entire thing, the whole enchilada, from front to back. Looking in all directions, there was no hair to be seen anywhere at LA Fitness.

How long had I been asleep?

When did this happen?

More important, why did this happen?

I was a mountain mamma drowning in a sea of hairless women.

I stared.

“It’s called a Brazilian wax,” said Zoey, pointing to her cue-ball smooth private parts.

“Oh.”

Twenty years ago, bare down there belonged exclusively to women on the pole or in Playboy Magazine. Now the furry undercoat was gone, and The Brazilian was main-stream.

I went home and straight to eBay, where I discovered instructional videos and home waxing kits for about $5.00. On Google, a whole empire had been built around hair removal.

When had hair become so offensive?

I called a ‘hair removal spa’ in Beverly Hills and was guided through the forest of Brazilian wax jobs.

It was explained that a skilled professional would take me from Grizzly Adams to Sinead O’Connor — or anywhere between — in as little as 15 minutes. Afterward, aloe vera and coconut palm oil would be applied to reduce reddening and swelling while leaving me silky smooth and, I assume, smelling like a Pina Colada.

Before treatment, I should know that the first time might be uncomfortable, there may be small spots of red body fluid, and going from being covered to being exposed can be jarring.

Finally, depending on my hair growth, I could stay hairless for anywhere from ten days to three weeks. Also — and this cannot be overstated — I should be in a good mood when I arrive.

This ‘hair removal spa,’ like many, offered an exclusive line of designer merkins that could be custom tailored while you wait.

What is a merkin? I’ll tell you.

A merkin is an accessory that hovers between your legs to cover your newly bald private parts. It can be cut, dyed, and made into any shape using any fabric, for example, a fuzzy leopard-print flower or piranha, your company logo, or the American flag.

Best of all, they come in three convenient sizes: petite, standard, and Sasquatch. Merkins have been around since the 1400s when they were donned by risqué aristocrats in grand old Paris.

But this is not a history lesson because The Brazilian is not about merkins, the abandonment of your .39 cent Bic, thongs, or hygiene.

The Brazilian is about sex. Period.

When was the last you were sitting on your couch, watching Dr. Phil, eating bonbons, and suddenly thought, “This house is a disaster. I bet a Brazilian Wax would inspire me to pull out my Hoover and vacuum.”

Or, “Damn, I think a good ole bush waxing would put me in the mood to bake those cookies for the PTA Meeting.”

Yeah. Me neither.

Women want great sex. We’ll settle for good sex, but we’d prefer great, and in pursuit of that goal, we get our bodies ready, and our brains follow, which is exactly the opposite of men. But, we prepare.

We get our nails done, toes buffed, and hair coiffed. We put our legs behind our heads and allow complete strangers to pour hot wax on us and rip out our hair.

If we are going to go that far, I say, don’t stop there. Pull out some magic markers and draw in directional arrows; have a merkin made with a big, yellow S on the front, attach lights to the landing strip, and put up some tiny traffic cones. Do not be limited by your imagination.

Maybe it’s because I’m from a generation punctuated by Reganomics and the great debate: who’s better, Michael Jackson or Prince?

But, sitting on that bench, I realized that I don’t understand life much better than I did in my twenties, but in my fifties — I’m old enough to admit it.

I decided that I was going to keep all my hair down there.

And…

Regarding the great debate of the eighties, the right answer is Prince.

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