My Own War on Terror

Am I a private person? Not exactly. I don’t air my dirty laundry on Facebook. And I’d never tweet about the interesting poop I had this morning. (I’d probably save it for our next coffee date…)

But some things, regardless of their slightly intimate nature are just so fantastic that you have to let the world know. In detail.

And one of those things, my friends, is my first Brazilian Wax.

You might be asking yourself why at the ripe old age of 30 I’ve only just discovered this mind-blowing procedure. Well, I hate body hair. And I’m a dark-haired girl. I still remember that moment in grade six when one of my peers was kind enough to inform me that I had a mustache. It was right after she’d belittled me for wearing 2nd hand clothes. Well, fuck you little girl. Vintage clothes are cool now. Besides, my mum taught me how to use tweezers that evening after I came home from school – a sad, deflated, fuzzy-lipped eleven year old.

From that day forth, I attacked hair removal with a vengeance and I never looked back. As soon as I noticed body hair, it was gone. Which is why waxing never occurred to me. Growing it out? For an extended period of time? Are you kidding? It would be like grade six all over again!

And then in late 2010 I got all crazy. I informed my husband that I was gonna let IT grow. HER. Downstairs. The basement suite. My lady garden. The garage where Bradford parks his Ferrari. Yup. He’s got a Ferrari. He was understanding as always. I talked up all the exciting perks… “it’ll be like a 70s porno, babe!” and “Maybe you’ll finally let me walk around the house naked when the blinds are up ’cause it’ll look like I’m wearing pants!”

Well, flash forward to early 2011. I hadn’t had a chance over the holidays to book my waxing appointment and the big George W that I’d been cultivating for so many weeks was starting to take over in Little Shop of Horrors fashion.

It. Was. Time.

I sought the advice of my friend and co-worker Jamie Fox. Yes, that’s her name. She sung the praises of her girl in Kits and dissected the service in detail, much to the dismay of our two pretty-boy apprentices who don’t like ANYTHING that has to do with vaginas.

Finally, on a very rainy day in late January, my George W and I went to Dona Lucia Spa on West Broadway to see the legendary Manjeet.

She ushered me into a little room and asked me to get undressed. There was a tiny blue towel on the table, which I gently placed over George W. Just because I was about to have him killed, didn’t mean he didn’t deserve a little respect during his final moments.

Manjeet entered, beaming. She spread my legs, slapped on the wax and… went for it. There’s not much to say about the actual experience because it only seemed to last for twenty seconds. Manjeet kept me talking the entire time, peppering each sentence with a “my dear”. She told me that waxing was her passion. I say, to each their own. I also say, if anyone is gonna be Between my legs in ANY capacity, isn’t it best if they’re passionate about whatever it is they’re doing down there?

Was it painless? No. Does it compare to getting tattooed? He’ll, no. So really, I can’t complain.

Manjeet is the best thing to happen to my vagina this year. In fact, we had such a good time together, I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t called…