What a girl will do for a good wax, even when there’s little south-of-the-border action.
I was never much into waxing until I moved to New York. Back in Seattle—land of polar fleece and Birkenstocks—nether-region body hair was only an issue if it was hanging out of your bathing suit. In New York, it’s an issue if it exists at all.
And so I got hooked on the Brazilian (or semi-Brazilian—think Chiclet), courtesy of a petite Russian woman named Natasha. She is quick, impeccable, and at just thirty dollars, her waxes are a somewhat well-kept New York secret. I faithfully visit her every four weeks and twist myself into various labor-and-delivery-like positions as she works her defuzzing action—all the while guiding me with Lamaze breathing.
“Deep in ... and PUSH!” she barks as I inhale sharply, then exhale with force as she rips the muslin from my skin. This technique effectively distracts me from the pain—as does Natasha’s vulvic small talk. At first, this was limited to the weather, my plans for the weekend, and whether I had any vacations lined up. But on the third visit, she ventured into the seriously personal.
“And how is zee monster?” she asked.
I lifted my head and stared down at her, puzzled. “I don’t have one.”
“No monster?” she said, eyebrows raised. “I thought you had monster.”
“No, I don’t have kids.”
“No, no,” she laughed. “Not kids. Monster. Boyfriend.”
“Oh,” I replied. “I don’t have a boyfriend either.”
“Oh, no monster. Is too bad,” she said, slathering wax onto my groin.
Great, I thought. As if it wasn’t bad enough explaining to my family, friends, and everyone else in the entire world that I was single, I now had the woman most familiar with my intimate parts questioning her purpose in my life.
A few days later, I noticed that my usually flawless wax job was red, irritated, and sprouting ingrown hairs. I wondered: Could there be a connection? Could it be that Natasha was a “waxist,” a crotch curator who only approached her job with exquisite care if there was someone attending the exhibit?
