Well, folks, hell has officially frozen over. I have done gone and got myself a new-fashioned bikini waxing. That’s right, kids, I’m bald.
In my first blog post, I lamented how before I was married, men seemed to be perfectly accepting of female pubic hair. Now, evidently, it is disgusting.
I protested bald punani for a long time. I was irritated that with all the torture we women put ourselves through to appeal to men, we had to add this to the list just to fulfill a silly male Penthouse fantasy.
I even tried to start a Twitter campaign to bring big bush back. Unfortunately, folks seem to embrace “retro” or “vintage” when it applies to music and fashion – but not hairstyles for your beaver.
In a rare (just go with it) lapse of sanity, I purchased a $20-off Groupon for a Brazilian wax at a posh spa in Beverly Hills. I had meant to use this before my Thailand vacation so I wouldn’t have to bother with shaving, but ultimately couldn’t find the time to do it.
The Groupon was going to expire this week so I decided to cash it in. I was grateful that at least I’m now sleeping with someone who might appreciate it, so it won’t go to complete waste.
The Big Rip
Tom, the sweet, sweet man, brought me to the appointment. We walked in and the place wasn’t posh at all. It wasn’t dirty or ghetto – it was clean and just fine, really – but posh would be a stretch. Note to non-Angelenos: just because an establishment has a Beverly Hills address does not automatically mean it is “posh.”
I went into the little room and the aesthetician seemed very nice for a sadist. I decided against the JonBenét Ramsey and instead opted for what those in the pube maintenance community refer to as “the landing strip.”
I haven’t the foggiest idea why this little patch of hair is called a landing strip, because nothing lands there. And if something does, then you’re doing it all wrong, girlfriend.
I climbed on the table and spread ’em. I didn’t care about a stranger handling my junk, but I was quite nervous about the pain – and rightfully so.
This woman began to vigorously rip out my pubes and I screamed the entire time. When I feel pain, I involuntarily and uncontrollably express myself vocally. Out in the waiting room, Tom feared I was being exorcised.
When it was all over, I took a gander at my abused little girl. It was about what I expected.
All right Mr. Flynt, I’m ready for my close up.
To the crazy bitches who initially agreed to this nonsensical trend, I would like to extend a giant FUCK YOU on behalf of pain-averse, muff-loving women everywhere. You really fucked things up for the rest of us.
Categories: True Story