Christly Conquers Ep. 1: The Brazilian Wax

In order to better serve you, please complete this small survey before proceeding*

I am reading this article because:

  1. a) I am considering getting a Brazilian and want to hear you say say “honestly girl, it basically doesn’t even hurt at all.”
  2. b) I’ve had a Brazilian and would like to compare notes.
  3. c) I am a dude who thinks this article is going to be hawt. (In which case, imma stop you right there because I anticipate using the word “butthole” in a very unsexy manner, many times.)
  4. d) I am a dude who is genuinely interested in this crazy process of cosmetic self-flagellation that my girl insists is not that big of a deal but I am still very concerned for her well-being (good on you, bro).
  5. e) I’m your mom.

Thank you for your time!

*It is not actually necessary to send your answers to me, I just thought this would be a fun and quirky way to begin my article. What you can absolutely do is email me with validating notes such as “Wow, Christly! What a fun and quirky way to begin your article!”/“You are very beautiful in addition to being smart and hilarious”/“Yes, since you walked a block to get that froyo, the calories don’t count.”/etc.

Christly Conquers: The Brazilian Wax

The summer after my shocking entrance into the public school system as an overly confident and intensely Catholic ninth grader, I began to notice my downstairs hair. The seeds of awareness were planted at a local park where my theatre friends and I often bummed around during our break before rehearsals. Joining me on that particular day was my personal consultant on all things pagan; an unconventionally beautiful, sexually-advanced upperclassman who liked to ask deeply personal questions and loved to see me squirm. On the docket this afternoon: personal grooming. Impermeable to embarrassment and also extremely clueless, I proudly informed her that I didn’t shave at all because I had better things to do with my time. She responded with a wave of her cigarette, suddenly a washed-up 42-year-old cage dancer, “you’ll understand when you get a boyfriend.” I was livid. How dare she not only suggest that I would get a boyfriend and immediately take my clothes off, but that I would change anything about myself for that same tool? Disgusting. Also, I could get a boyfriend if I wanted to…I just didn’t want to. I had better things to do, after all.

Looking back, I am hella proud of myself and immensely entertained by the thought of a young charismatic conservative spewing feminist ideals despite all of her valiant and incredibly misguided efforts to be anti-feminist. I still feel the same way about pubic hair. I believe a woman should groom herself the way she wants to, and not for anyone else. In the recent years I have kept myself juuuuust clean enough to avoid unwanted pool party appearances. I dabbled in a more intensive shave job once or twice, but couldn’t stand the prickly endgame. Friends suggested waxing. I waned. My opposition was born primarily out of fear and lack of funds, but perhaps my refusal to go all-out was also a quiet act of rebellion. I was and continue to be fed up with the the entertainment industry’s creepy obsession with female hairlessness.

Exhibit A: How to be Single, Rebel Wilson regarding Dakota Johnson’s situation: “Is that Tom Hanks from Cast Away?”

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TBH, if you’re turning down Dakota Johnson for that reason, you are an insane person.

Exhibit B: T.I. “You won’t get no dick if there’s a bush down there.” (No Mediocre)

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Really, T.I? We all know you don’t actually mean that.

Despite my reservations, I can’t deny that I had been curious. The general consensus from my wax-committed friends has been that it makes everything less annoying. Without going into details too dirty, one apparently has less of a headache during a certain miserable time of the month and everyone has a more pleasant time in the bedroom. Moral objections and preconceived notions set aside, I began to wonder how I could fully embrace my stance on the subject if I didn’t check out the lack of grass on the other side. So here we are. For this first installment of Christly Conquers, I decided to go all in by going all without.

My appointment was set for a Sunday morning but was rescheduled because I woke up way late and terribly hungover. I had a feeling any kind of hair extraction should not be done while one is in the red on the barf-ometer. I wonder now if I drank heavily Saturday night knowing I would probably sleep through my appointment…if the other besties were going to give me an extension on my article it would have to be because I partied too hard and not because I was a giant pussy (pun definitely intended. I’ve been waiting for that one). For the rest of my Sunday I piddled about my apartment and tried not to think about what I was avoiding. Key word here being ‘try’. Some deeply rooted, irrational concerns that surfaced despite my best efforts:

Would my waxer tell me I a have a weird looking vag and suggest I see a doctor? What if the doctor told me I was incapable of childbirth? Do I actually even want kids anyway? Where do I see myself in ten years? What am I doing with my life? Why the hell did I shoot Fireball last night?

The next day I met my mom for lunch, right next to my designated European Wax Center. No turning back now. My mom’s presence put me at ease but I still suggested we have some wine. After a quick text poll regarding alcohol before waxing, I resigned myself to two extra-strength tylenols.

The wax center was cold like a doctor’s office. I began to worry that my naked ‘nother region would numb or freeze off as a result. Deep breaths. My name was called by a sweet-looking girl, surely no older than 23. Do they give out waxing licenses to babies nowadays, I wondered? I looked back at my mom who was grinning a grin that said “you did this to yourself, sucker.” In an effort to buy time, I immediately excused myself to use the restroom. Flickering faux-candle sconces lit the faux-brick walls of the hallway that screamed ‘sexy vampire lair’. I texted the other besties:

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Deep breaths. My ageless vampiress was stirring a cauldron of purple goo when I returned. She introduced herself as Yasmin and asked me if this was my first time. I confirmed with a nervous guffaw. She laughed politely and told me I’d survive, but it would hurt. Smiling on the outside, I was simultaneously grateful and enraged by her honesty. “Go ahead and take off your clothes from the waist down.” I froze. Why did I need to do that? OH RIGHT. The panties came off and sat my naked bum on the table. I almost made a nervous joke about foreplay, but refrained. Yasmin walked me through the process and asked me to butterfly my legs open. What a nice way to ask me to reveal my entire vag to her, I thought. At this point I felt more naked than I have ever been in my life. There was no courtesy sheet. No privacy curtain. No room for shame. It was just me and Yasmin and my open legs…so we small-talked. Yasmin asked me what I did for a living as she laid down a warm layer of goo. Surprisingly pleasant. I found sanctuary in pretending we were two old pals getting coffee as we found common ground in our love of makeup and skincare. I almost forgot where we were when she told me to take a deep breath.

“And One, (dear god), Two (where’s my mom), Three (WHY)…”

The first strip was ripped forth from my hoo-haa. I flinched, but didn’t knee her in the face, despite the very real urge. My merciful tormentor applied pressure and the pain diminished. Another guffaw fled my mouth. Sensing impending hysteria, Yasmine comforted me by saying the first strip is the hardest. I nodded and started singing Sheryl Crow in my head in the way one soothes a crying baby.

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Oh Sheryl, you perfect folky angel. Image courtesy of allmusic.com

In the first few passes, Yasmine reached the third count and was suddenly my own personal mortal-enemy-bloodsucker whom I wanted very badly to find the nearest crucifix and bludgeon mercilessly. Eventually, however, I came to recognize that the anticipation was always worse than the actual sting. At some point my palms stopped sweating and we had reached a nice repartee. Yasmine, bless her heart, was a such a good sport. My knees over my head for the final pass, she told me about esthetician school as if she wasn’t staring directly into my butthole.

Just when I was anticipating the ‘worst part’, Yasmine announced that it was finished. I looked to my new confidant for validation and she assured me that I did great, and I quote, “better than most!” Which I translated into “No one has ever been as brave as you, I give you an honorary purple heart from my heart to yours.” It was a mixture of self-pride and the intense trust I had for Yazzy that made me an easy sell on the Center’s over-priced ingrown hair serum. At this point Yazz could have told me I needed to rub peanut butter all over my V  every morning for five years and I would have done it. I tell ya, nothing one-sidedly bonds you to another woman like a Brazilian Wax. I’ll be sending Yaz Christmas cards and she’ll be at her mailbox like, “who the eff is this weirdo and why is she holding a cat that’s wearing a tiny santa hat?” I thanked her at the door but I didn’t hug her because I’m not actually crazy. Feeling like a badass, I waltzed into the waiting room and coolly announced to my audience (of one) (my mom), “Oh, it wasn’t bad,” and promptly paid out at the cash wrap.

I brag-texted the besties:

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My cockiness is actually disgusting, and I don’t care. I AM PROUD. No tears, no screams, no kicks. Admittedly, I’m digging this new situation. If I keep up with it, let it be known that it is for me….and if my paycheck allows. The circulation is outstanding and I don’t mind the look of things, either. I still feel mature and feminine and feminist. It’s just as if I’m trying out a new hairstyle, for lack of a better metaphor. But with all new haircuts, at some point the sparkle fades. Get back to me in three weeks.

The biggest take away: my vag is probably normal. Yaz would have said something.