I must say that, ever since I took Women’s Studies in college, I’ve been a natural sort of woman. I assumed that men who wanted their partners to wax their pubic area were closet pedophiles. Pubic hair, I reasoned, was what made a woman a woman. Why get rid of it?
I now have my answer: because I’m a mom. I realize that may read like a non sequitur, so I’ll explain. Joy-filled and rewarding as it is, motherhood has presented an unfortunate side effect (okay, many side effects). It has obliterated my sexual identity. This former lace panty buying, push up bra wearing, sex goddess feeling youngster is now a frumpy feeling, cotton underwear wearing, station wagon driving mother of three-year-old. I’m also a full grown woman who happens to be in the middle of a six-month long dry spell. I need a sense of sexuality like yesterday, okay?
Enter: the bikini wax, one that will shape my wooly front side into the sensual picture of a martini glass. You might accuse me of looking for desire in all the wrong places, but something about the bikini wax has captured my sexual attention. A trip to a sex therapist or a week in Fiji might be more rational ways to reclaim my sexual identity, but the Martini seems like such an attractive quick fix.
Which brings me to the hair salon, where I am standing, feigning interest in the skin care products. I hear someone say my name. I look up and see Carmen, the Martini Glass pro. Everything about her—from her long eyelashes and full lips to her slender hips and high heeled boots—drips sensuality. She takes me to a private room.
“You want the Martini?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
She stands and stares. I’m supposed to be doing something.
“Uh, you’re going to have to tell me what to do. I’ve never gotten a bikini wax before.”
“Just take off your pants and get on the table.”
“Okay,” I say. I start to unbutton my pants, but I’m thinking that I could use a little privacy. Even at the gynecologist’s office, the nurse hands me a gown. The gynecologist is going to get up front and personal with me, but the gown gives me the illusion of not having someone staring closely at my nether regions.
Ah, yes, the nether regions. There’s really no good word for this area of the female body. The technical term, vagina, describes only one small part of the package, and various slang expressions (I could list them, but must I?) are anything but pretty words. Perhaps the ugly terminology is appropriate. When I was a teenager and read that it was a good idea to place a handheld mirror underneath the thing in order to get a good look, I had just one thought: “That’s butt ugly.”
That’s my term of endearment for the front side, “Ms. Butt Ugly.” Over the years, I’ve learned to feel comfortable with lights on sex, but that’s mostly because my husband is a butt guy. He’s so interested in my back side that I can almost forget my front side exists.
Perhaps Carmen can beautify Ms. Butt Ugly without actually looking at her? No, I didn’t think so. She’s standing with her arms crossed, waiting. I drop my pants, step out of my panties, and climb onto the table.
“Spread your legs,” she says. I do. She walks around the table and looks at Ms. Butt Ugly from all angles. As she walks, she periodically strokes my pubic hair. She’s checking out Ms. Butt Ugly the way my mother, a visual artist, looks at a still life.
“Do you want a very thin stem or a wide one?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I’m a little worried about the pain, so maybe I should go with a wider stem?”
