There are only two things I hate with the sociopathic rigor of an unemployed executioner, and they are bikini waxes and Murray Hill. Of course, as a result, I am on my way to Murray Hill to get my vagina massacred with the atrocious green, stick-on wax that is purportedly more gentle than regular wax but has heretofore only reminded me of James Brown in that it’s a man’s man’s man’s world. How else would fate have had it, right?
I should have had a drink before agreeing to do away with my seasoned femininity. The GROWING fruit of my labor. My female fiber.
I wonder how many miles this walk is from home. If I left at 11:08 and it’s not 11:20 and I have about six blocks to go…hey! There’s a Blockheads. Should I get a drink? Kick back a good old glass of ye temperate white wine? We’re almost dancing into the PM portion of this day. No, Leandra, no! You can’t build dependency on a beverage to get you through this. That’s not how it works. Why am I doing this? What’s wrong with me? I am sure, if not unflinchingly positive, that across some cultures the notion that women in America could not just elect to have their vaginas stripped bald but pay for the kind of torture that is imbued with the process seems ludicrous. Like Frontline documentary ludicrous.
Those six blocks came and went quickly.
“Hi, I have an 11:30AM appointment, with anyone but Tiffany.” (Tiffany once proceeded to use a glob of hot wax against both my vagina lips in tandem and rip them off together which, after a little bit of research, I learned is one of the first things they tell you never to do in waxing school, or whatever.)
“Take a seat, Narzila will be out soon.”
Narzila? Like Godzilla but with a Nar — a Nair! — at the beginning of her name? What is about to happen to me?
This issue of Us Weekly says “I Made The Wrong Decision?” And has a photo of Kim Kardashian next to Kris Humphries across the cover. How old does that make it?
Gosh, the smell of this place reminds me of terror. I can picture that begrudging pot of green wax, which kind of looks like the possessed oven in Home Alone 1, coming my way, ready to spread itself thick on the lips of my truest expression only to be abruptly ripped off, leaving nothing but several errant hairs which will, no doubt, be subjected to a localized, masochistic form of removal by way of tweezer when this is all done. This is a slaughterhouse, I am a chicken and she who performs the duty, she is the butcher.
I should tweet that.
Fuck, that’s me. I look up and nod. I am now being escorted through a maze of doors that make me feel like I am in Taken and being taken and Liam Neeson is not my father. We arrive at room 8. I’m told to remove my pants, underwear and socks. I keep my socks on.
And within moments:
“Ready?” I hear from behind the other side of the door.
“Yes,” says I, meaning, No, absolutely not, I never should have come here. My underwear is pulled down to my ankles, my pants hooked to the wall, I am more vulnerable than I have felt since my middle school boyfriend cried to our history teacher about having been forced to ask me out (incidentally, by me) even though he didn’t like me.
“Cold out today, huh?” My small talk is a sad attempt to distract her from her job.
“How long do you think this will take?”
And while she’s cleaning my, uh, surface area: “Lot of hair! Maybe 30-35 minutes?”
WOAH! SLOW YOUR ROLL. I signed up for the 15 minute special.
“You know what, I just realized I have to go, I’m so sorry, I have to go — thank you!”
I pull my underwear up, I remove my pants from the wall hook and put my shoes back on. I am going to Mexico on Friday and will, no doubt, be presented with the challenge of wearing a bathing suit, which I will, no doubt, accept to the simultaneous chagrin of the hygienically neurotic and utter satisfaction of my now storied female fibers.