When I was eight months pregnant with my first child, after worrying about everything from whether my son would have my nose and if my water would break in the grocery store, I turned my focus to fretting about what would happen in the delivery room. Would it be cold? Would the anesthesiologist screw up my epidural and kill me? Would I be able to get an epidural? Would I crap on the table? Would I tell my husband I hate him? Would I hate him?
I knew I wouldn’t be able to control many things about that experience, so I fixated on what I could control. I got a pedicure, I practiced my rhythmic breathing, and I scheduled a Brazilian wax. Childbirth might be a total shit storm, my toes and lady bits would look nice.
In hindsight, I realize maybe we had to borrow a car seat to bring my boy home from the hospital because I needed to concentrate less on my pubic hair and more on securing baby essentials.
I had never completely waxed my whisker biscuit, and I wasn’t sure if I should be getting a Brazilian wax when pregnant, but I was too embarrassed to ask my obstetrician if it was a good idea or not. Never mind that a few years later I would be sharing the entire tale on the internet, and there I was, too shy to ask my doctor. This is only one poor decision I make in this story.
I thought, I have a couple of professional bikini waxes under my belt, and really it’s the same thing, right? With that, I booked my appointment at the same time as a few friends who were, and still are, fans of heavily landscaped downstairs.
We arrived at the salon, and waited in a foyer filled with cozy chairs, cool art, and a table piled high with photo albums of the previous clients’ “after” pictures. Men and women. Front and back. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought about what style I wanted. My friends had, though, and my head spun with the number of options for freeing pubic areas from the confines of their natural pelts.
The business was set up as one big room, with walls that were about ten feet tall forming the smaller “rooms” and a curtain as the doors. This allowed some privacy, but there was still the feeling of openness. It also meant any screaming would be heard by all. I was nervous, but I figured people do this all the time. How bad could it be? Also, I wax my upper lip and eyebrows frequently. That meant I was pretty tough, right? In a month I was planning on pushing a baby out of that same area, so a little hair removal had to be manageable.
Finally, it was my turn. I made pleasantries with my waxologist, or esthetician as I learned they are actually called, and was led to my room (the one closest to the door and the waiting area) and given my instructions. She left the room while I disrobed, laid on the table, and draped my fur with the sheet. It was chilly, but I was sweating. Was it too late to back out? What the hell did I care if I wasn’t freshly waxed for the big day? I’m sure my doctor and the hospital staff had seen worse. To this day, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have put a stop to the whole thing if my ride wasn’t spread eagle in the next room getting hot wax applied to her butt.
The waxidermist came back in, and we got started. She slid a dollop of warm wax onto my bikini area, and it felt nice. When she firmly attached the strip to the wax, that was pleasant, too. That was the end of the nice stuff.
She expertly began her task, and my brain was screaming, but my face was still calm. Then she had me grab my knee and pull it to my chest. This was difficult, actually impossible, but I pulled my leg up as far as I could with my gigantic belly, and waited. As the hair was ripped from my body, I began to wonder if my nether regions were going to be able to handle the rigors of childbirth if they protested so violently at a waxing. I cried. I sweated profusely. I was shaking so much we had to take a break.
Also, I was pissed. Pissed at our society that tells women this garbage is necessary, and so prevalent that there are businesses dedicated almost solely to pubic hair removal, pissed at my friends for bringing me to this torture chamber, but mostly pissed at myself for being such a wimp. I was having a difficult time talking myself into continuing, but I couldn’t stop yet. I was lopsided! I bit my lip, dug deep for strength, and gave the wax wielder a “let’s do this” nod.
She waxed, I whimpered, and I was eventually allowed to lower my legs. They were numb. I wished the rest of me was, too. I suggested an epidural service be added to the establishment’s a la carte menu. The esthetician smiled, dipped her wax, and told me to get on all fours. I sighed the sad, sad sigh of the broken, and complied. I felt sorry for myself, I felt sorry for this woman who removed asshole hair for a living, and I was exhausted. One more time, I pulled my strength, and I clenched my jaw. She set to work, and while she was waxing, she said, “You know, during pregnancy you have more blood flowing to your genitals. This makes waxing much more painful.”
What? WHAT?! We’re more than halfway done and I’m just hearing that now? She continues, “I’m really impressed that you were brave enough to try this for the first time with that much more sensation down here.”
Two things went through my mind. First, I wasn’t as much of a pussy as I thought. Second, I could stop. And that’s just what I did. I wasn’t done, but I wasn’t lopsided. Good enough. A vast improvement over what was happening down there when I walked in, and being on all fours with a stranger eyeing my butthole while I was eight months pregnant was a great story. I considered the day a success. I planned to come back when I could pop some ibuprofen and have a few drinks, and when my body wasn’t preparing for the miracle of childbirth.
I never did.
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