I'm Going To Brazil

One thing I think the world should analyze more is the Brazilian. As in, the Brazilian bikini wax. Apparently in Brazil they value hairless cooches enough that the procedure to get one is named after the country. Impressive accomplishment, really, to have all your citizens agree that smooth vulvas are important enough to undergo severe pain and humiliation.

As a triathlete, one is in a swimsuit enough that one has to pay attention to the state of one's cooch hair and whether or not it is extending outward from said swimsuit and offending other triathletes. So one year I was all about the bikini wax, peripheral only. Then the next year, as part of my preparations for a trip to Cancun, I decided to go all out and have a Cancunian. Which is what resulted from me attempting a Brazilian--a slightly unfinished, and non-symmetrical yet mostly smooth coochie.

Here is what we do for love and beauty, men, so pay heed and you will prosper:

First, you have to strip from the waist down. Then they give you what could only be called a pseudo-panty, a paper impression of modesty. It's useless, and modesty is just an illusion at this point. Then you have to get up on a table whereupon the girl shines a light directly on your crotch that is at least 100,000 lumens. One hopes at this point that she does not gasp, or tut, or or otherwise show any other sign that you have some kind of vulvular weirdness. 

Then the real fun starts. By fun, I mean hot wax upon your softest skin, canvas strips rubbed onto it, and then the ripping. Often the girl will recruit you to help hold your lower abdominal or leg skin taut, to avoid worse skin trauma. So you are a party to your own torture, basically. 

Now the plan with a Brazilian, and what makes it stand out from your average bikini wax, is that they wax everything, possibly leaving only a small strip of hair on the front of the cooch if you find that aesthetically pleasing. When I say everything, I mean every hair that is on, in, or around the coochular area, including the ass crack. And as if the humiliation of thinking about hairs in your ass crack is not enough, now you have someone applying hot wax to them and tearing them off, all while looking directly into your bunghole in the light of a thousand suns. Oh, and your legs are up in the air. So your ass can be higher and more accessible for the girl who can't possibly be getting paid enough.

So midway through my Brazilian, as she was inching in further and further toward the pinkest parts, I gasped out that I might not want to go all the way in, like totally hairless in the cooch. She replied that she was already done there and we'd be moving on to the frontal area now. The mons, if you will. Well, I thought I knew pain, people, but the waxing of the mons taught me that I did not. And remember, I kick bricks apart and have natural childbirth for fun. Upon the first rip I invented three new swearwords. Second rip, kicked her in the face. Third rip, threw myself through the plate-glass window of the salon in my non-modest half-panty.

That's kind of a lie, none of that happened. But in my mind, it did. And more. Because the pain, oh the pain of the rips on my mons pubis, was the pain of a million cats torn asunder by a million dogs. So I gave up on that area, never made it to the traditional "landing strip" look, instead sporting an off-center rhomboid of pubes.

When she realized I had reached my waxing nadir, she asked if I wanted to move on to the ass crack. I gathered my wits and succumbed to her once more. The pain this time was, surprisingly minimal, but the mental anguish made up for it, for sure. Because of the spotlight on my ass crack like it was the Superbowl National Anthem singer, and also because of the public acknowledgement of ass crack hairs. That hurt, man. It hurt me deep.

As I paid, I was feeling like I lost my virginity all over again. Only this time, instead of my actual virginity, it was my skin, cooch hair, and dignity. And my desire for ass crack hairs to never be acknowledged, much less looked at and removed by someone. I'm still processing, to be honest. I think I need to haiku this one out:

All the pubes torn off

In the trash of the salon

Ass crack hairs--why? why?

Hot wax melts my soul

The pain! The pain! The pain! Ow!

Pubes in a rhombus

Pants are rubbing me

In the places hair is not

70's pube bush come back

(I know about the syllables on the last one. It's my blog, and my haiku. It says what I feel, haters. Let it go.)