Friday, March 09, 2007

Masta Waxa

Warning: this post may contain graphic descriptions of hair removal and less than subtle references to my nether region. You may find this content unsuitable for reading, particularly if you're someone who has to walk past me in the halls at work whilst pretending you don't know about my blog. Or, it may be a post entirely about rainbows and unicorns and soft baby seals. You never can tell with these things...

I am in love. And like any love-sick puppy, I must climb the highest mountain and shout if from the highest peak: I LOVE BELINDA! Who's Belinda? She is my waxer lady. She does things most men only dream about: sees me naked, touches my vajayjay, only has to ask me once to pull my knees to my chest, and gets paid for all of it.

(You are free to stop reading now and google yourself on over to a different, less threatening site, like this one. Or maybe this.)

Years ago, when I first ventured into the world of severe hair removal, I regularly saw a girl who spent almost as much time tweezing me as she did waxing. She assured me that the tweezing was just a minor inconvenience, a general spiffing up of the job site to grab any stray hairs the wax left behind. I was a newbie so I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure the stray hairs left behind were not supposed to number in the thousands. I always left the salon red and puffy, feeling much like an angry, freshly plucked chicken. And looking a lot like one too. Only not nearly as cute. Wincing with every step on the seemingly never-ending walk back to office, I'd wonder if all the pain was really worth it. And apparently it was, because I kept going back... but I began to make better use of the alcohol and shot glasses provided in the waiting area.

Eventually I moved on, but not up. The next woman studied her work after a particularly painful yank, and with a heavy sigh said, "Uh oh. Do you have any neosporine at home?" Then there was the woman who couldn't get the triangle even, so she just kept plucking on the left... and then plucking on the right... and then plucking on the left again... until I was left with more of a wrinkly frito than a cute nacho cheesy dorito. And let's not forget the woman who managed to sculpt a perfect triangle, but who's layout was all wrong, with the skewed corn chip pointing to... um... my left knee maybe? Not particularly helpful to those who've lost their way.

After years of this - YEARS, I tell you - I finally decided to take the recommendation of a couple girlfriends and visited Belinda at Etherea. And thus began the love affair. My bikini line was the first to fall under her spell, so impressed was it with Belinda's ability to pull hair without (much) pain, no prolonged tweezing, no lingering tender redness, just silky baby-butt softness. And my heart wasn't far behind, what with her delightful conversation and ingenious suggestions for urn alternatives (more on that later). She is the best waxer ever, and should be added to the speed dials of all waxing Seattle-ites.

And there you have it. You made it all the way to the end. Good for you. If it was a little too much for you, enter your happy place now.

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