Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only last two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and realize it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that evil rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’. I prefer that warm rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ Sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I had been subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis.
I may have forgotten to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic? and by may or may not I mean may and by slightly or a touch more than slightly, I mean yes. And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event, I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha.
Okay, back to the front, or the down to the below, whatever. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm, I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and have the possibility of rush number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damaging my bladder? So to avoid the damage, I got up and whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow -as a man might say, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with a ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache’. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved with a dull razor… I had a bikini wax. The day before.
For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure (I don’t judge) or your threshold is almost nonexistent (mine is pretty high) you must go into your appointment prepared for at least a little pain. As someone who has had this done probably a hundred times over the years, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new, at a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not forever, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. And my appointment was with one of their most experienced Estheticians. Maybe I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and possibly a desire to pretend one is young by trying to fit in with the hip crowd.
I arrived and was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” Looking back, I should have run. Where are we?? West-bygawd-Virginia? What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my vah-jj and rippin’ hair out while she’s there. But before my better sense kicked in she was back. So, I put in my headphones aaand promptly took one out. Apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk‘ to everyone. I did however, leave one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. I would have done this anyway, but in this case… life-save-er. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC’s ‘Gravity‘ may have saved a life (not my own).
Like I said, my wits didn’t work so she was back. First, she pulled off the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only with less lube and cowboy boots and Demi Moore when she looked awesome and Burt Reynolds when well.. and a lot less funny. I guess I passed inspection, so the waxing began.
First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, that’s more wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell, I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times but I’m paying someone to not have that happen. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure I’m okay with this. But too late to worry about that (I have no desire to look like the nether parts of the 40 year old virgin) so forward we go…
I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. The lower field is usually easier and I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (Really..if that was tmi, forgive.. but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed… ??) Thus the next application felt a little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lot-a-bit different than any of the others and I kinda said ‘that’s different’. Her response to my query, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’ Alright, no worries, err.
“u-um… pardon me that’s a little too hot”.
“I probably just got some off the bottom, it’s the right temp, I checked.”
I’m going to skip the details about starting to take it off before it was hard enough (stop it!). All I can say is.. Maybe it wasn’t ready because the shit was too hot and taking a while to cool being it’s in a warm area of my body… ya think?!?
I mentioned the temp again and the third time
“wow, that is a lot hotter than I thought it would be, really. kinda uncomfortable”
this I was met with (I shit you not) “its the perfect temperature it just feels hotter because I’m inside you”.
*insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt…* Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer, so it sure as shit wasn’t her. (That is another blog entirely so sorry)
All of this… Repeating spots, meh… Wax too hot… meh. Uncomfortable verbiage, meh… None of this was all that bad Until I noticed she had a little pair of scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. Again, I’m not so sure about you, but when someone who is up close and personal enough with my vaah-gene to use the words ‘inside me’ without even buying me dinner first, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried. I bypassed worried and went straight to anxious, wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim some hairs. Okay, I can see that, be gentle and carry on. Next more scalding wax of doom and I feel a little well stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her doom wax to close me off. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and have been frightened enough by the sealing and the ripping that you will never know. In my panic I lie wondering if she was going to perform some sort of vagino-plasty, so I was again trying to espn the Xanax with every cell in my brain. As I tried without success I realized there was a foreign object in the region just below the region setting off the alarms. And said object was making a snipping noise.
What. The. Fuck?! over.
Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal of doom? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me lose trac of where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. And I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in right in my magic button. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell bitches! I was definitely alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.”
I lie there mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there. I had no desire to anger whomever I had pissed of to receive this punishment.
When she finally cleaned me up (if that’s what we call that) I dressed, paid and left. I had no desire to re-live the trauma right then and no desire to look jigsaw in the eye while trying to explain.
Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two Esteticians that I know (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty chat with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’. But when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want to go anywhere near there, but at least I know they heard and someone understood.
So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page out of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is always a lesson to be learned from even from Jigsaws Funhouse: ask around and research well before you go to someone new. (Especially when they are touching your lady bits) Because been around may just mean old. And is reputable does not mean good, it just means they can charge more and have nice drapes. Also if your Esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run.
My lesson… STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!
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Sometimes its just like that… you wake up because you have to pee (for the third time that night) and look over at the clock (like you do every time – mainly so you can torture yourself about the fact that you can only go two hours before your bladder feels like it will burst!) and it is forty minutes past when your alarm was supposed to signal that it’s almost time for you to join the drones. I don’t know about you but I hate waking up then getting that rush that says ‘holy fuck I’m gonna be late!’ I prefer a rush that says… ‘mmm whatcha doin down there?’ But no, sadly I had the former rush and would have had to refuse the latter anyhow because of some unexpected issues. I was subjected to an assault on my ever so sensitive netherdermis.
Oh, did I forget to mention this may or may not be slightly or maybe a touch more than slightly graphic? And while I may not mind anyone who happens to have access to this reading about the following true (seriously, I am not a fiction writer and couldn’t make this shit up if I had a $20,000 advance) event I will be kind enough to give fair warning there will be much talk of my who-ha. Okay, back to the front, or the below. When I was shocked out of bed by said lack of alarm I was also put off the normal things I would do during the 4 times I hit the snooze button. Things like roll over so I will get cuddled and possibly shock number two, or start trying to figure out which color of the 27 long tanks I have to wear under the two other layers that will be over it. I will wonder if the coffee was made and mostly I will wonder can I hold it for 10 more minutes without damage? So whilst ambling to the bathroom I felt it… the sore-stingey-I used a dull razor to shave feeling – intensified by that (prickley 5 o’clock shadow on a man, but really we have no name for it other than ‘time to get waxed!’) feeling of my jammie bottoms sticking to the little pokey hairs above my happy place. I may have been able to handle this without an issue because, lets face it, we get the prickly pear. It happens, whatever. But this was combined with some ‘I spent last night doin some kinky shit but didn’t get the t-shirt’ ache. I was not doing kinky shit and had not shaved… I had a bikini wax. For those that have never had the house of milk and honey (or the home of jewels) taken down to the parquet… It is not a process that comes without cost, both monetarily and physically. Unless pain is part of your pleasure or your threshold is almost nonexistent you must go into your appointment prepared. As someone who has had this done probably around one hundred times in the past, I had no reservations and was actually rather relaxed. I’d made an appointment with someone new (keep track here) but since it was a highly reputable and well known salon that has been around forever – maybe not, but a long time. I trusted that whoever I saw would be fine. Ah-no. Really, big no. I should have realized that ‘experience’ can just mean age and a desire to pretend one is young by hanging out with the hip crowd. I was quickly ushered in to the esthetician’s room and told to “get out of [my] britches and there is a towel. I’ll be back.” I should have run. What professional talks like that? Especially one who will be gettin up close and personal with my who-ha and rippin hair out while she’s there. But before my wits kicked in she was back. So I put in my headphones and then promptly took one out because apparently headphones in don’t mean ‘I don’t want to talk’ to everyone. I still left one in to keep my balance and not forget to breathe. Thank you APC, really… more than I can tell you APC may have saved a life. Things were all well and good, until she pulled the towel off and started inspecting. I’m not sure about y’all but… but that was a first. I was offered no disposables or anything for that matter. Just me layin there half clothed with my socks on like some kind of bad scene out of Striptease only less funny. Thus my ordeal began. I guess I passed inspection, so let the waxing begin! First strip down, cool. Second, okay. Third, not so bad. For one silly second I thought ‘wow, this is way less painful than I recall’. Silly, silly sars… getting ahead of yourself is never a good idea. Because wait, what’s that? More wax in the same spot, and then again. Um, pardon me but, aren’t you supposed to like take care of that on the first pass? Hell I could use some Nads from Target and rip off hair from the same spot 4 times. You are supposed to be like the dude who cuts the grass at the baseball field… one pass and the shit is perfect. I’m not so sure l’m okay with this. But too late now so forward we go… Oh, you thought that was it, ha! There I was feeling a bit sore and a tad uncomfortable but I could tell where we were in the process and knew there could not be this kind of torture in the next section. I simply don’t have enough hair to require multiple passes! (If that was tmi, forgive but, gerald f.! you are readin about me gettin my shit waxed…) The next application felt a little bit, okay who am I kidding, a lotabit different than any of the others and she said, ‘oh, we,re gonna use hard wax for the sensitive area.’ *insert loud sound of tires coming to a screeching halt… Please hold. ‘because I’m inside you’ There is only one person allowed to say the words ‘I’m inside you’ to me. This chic was about a foot to short, minus a cock, and the bulbous fake tits are not what I prefer so it sure as shit wasn’t her. But I digress, that was really not a big deal. Repeating spots, meh… next she reached for the little scissors. You know like men use for their nose or ear hair when they are some where around 90 and have forgotten there are electric tools and people for that shit. So again I’m not so sure about you, but someone who is up close and personal enough with my vah-j area to use the words inside me without even asking, has muthafukin scissors in her hands, I’m more than worried l’m wondering how to teleport some Xanax out of my bag. She tells me she needs to trim something. Okay, carry on then. She applies more scalding wax of death and I feel a little well smothered, stuck if you will. Yes friends, she has used her death wax to seal me up. The netherlips were sealed. Apparently they had secrets and now they have all been ripped away so you will never know. Wondering if she was just going to perform some sort of vaginoplasty, I was again trying to espn the Xanax when I realized there was a foreign object in the region setting off the alarms and it was making a snipping noise. What. The. Fuck?! over. Is she using the grandpa nose scissors on my vah-j seal? Why yes, yes she is. I thought that alone was going to make me vomit as visions of all sorts of damage flashed before my eyes, distracting me for a split second… just long enough for me not to notice where said snippers were in relation to my anatomy. But I certainly woke the fuck up when those grandpa slippers poked me in my bean. Straight shot to the center of the target and holy hell I was alert and let out enough of a noise for her to stop, but not enough to slip and slice. All I could think was ” please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood, please don’t snip my hood.” I was mortified and I think I held my breath the rest of the time I was there. Prickly hairs, meh. Wax too hot, meh. Re-waxing the same patch-o-snatch four times, meh. Leaving bits of wax and residue, again meh. All these things mean nothing when your beautiful little flower is stung by the scissors of death. After a little time to let the inflammation die down and to consult with two people I know that are esteticians (just no longer in the field) yeah… I called the salon and had a little chatty with the manager. I was nice, I was brief, I did not give the detail I do here, I even left out some stuff. But she was extremely displeased. In fact she was ready to just refund me after ‘still have prickly hairs’ and multiple passes’ and ‘um, its too hot’ but when I touched on the hot button topic, money returned and free services as well. I wasn’t looking for that, I’m not sure I want it, but at least I know they heard and understood. So sometimes it’s just like that… you go for routine maintenance that turns out to be a page our of Norman Bates torture treasury. However, there is a lesson to be learned from my ordeal that is not: ask before you go to someone new, just because the salon has been around and is reputable does not mean good or if your esthetician looks like she’s fifty-three and had enough procedures to feel she should try to fit in with the hip young kids… run. The lesson is, STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WHO-HA WITH MUTHAFUCKIN GRANDPA SCISSORS!
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