I'm a fiend for hair, nails, massages and facials. I am not, however, a waxing fiend.
I'm the Goldilocks of beauty, just looking for my perfect fit. In my defense, it's part of my job: I try new salons, new treatments and new stylists with relative ease for research purposes.
I also usually don't pay attention to who's doing my hair. Or my nails. Or my massage. In fact, after the initial polite greeting, introduction and what I'm looking for out of the treatment, I like to plug my headphones into my ears, turn on some Biebs and just ignore what's happening around me.
I view salon time as “me” time. During that precious half hour, short-lived as it may be, I like to be in my own head and relax with music or an audiobook. I don't feel the need to make small talk and most technicians respect that. I'm never rude, I just don't see the point of chit-chatting when I'm off-duty.
There's only one beauty professional I do talk to: my bikini waxer. Hey, girl!
I've been going to the same place for years, so she and I are basically soul sisters. I know all about her life and she knows all about mine. She also happens to know what my vagina looks like, so she's part of a very exclusive club.
Lying spread-eagle on a bunch of paper, it gets real. I need to fill the air with voices, ambient noise, or anything outside the horrific silence of hair being ripped from my cooch follicles.
Seriously, the waxing table is the new therapy couch.
My waxer saw me through a breakup.
The day after I moved out of my ex-boyfriend's apartment, I had an appointment to get a Brazilian.
Seeing as the only alternative was staying home and feeling miserable, I actually pulled myself and my vag (three weeks deep in stubble) out of bed and to the salon. Like a mystical vagina whisperer, she already knew something was wrong.
“What did he do?” she asked as I took my pants off.
I planted my naked ass on the table, talking all the while.
“We broke up and he sucks and he's a terrible person and …"
I went on. The pain of becoming bald down there overtook my misery post-dumping.
Incidentally, that session was the first time I didn't get an ingrown hair post-wax. It was a sign that my cooch was meant for better, bigger (ahem) things.
Once, she wondered what I'd eaten that day.
Pro tip: When someone who is literally applying wax to your ass crack asks what you ate for lunch, your bum probably smells like the inside of a Chipotle bathroom after the lunch rush.
To be fair, that day, I had a Dos Toros burrito bowl with extra cheese. I am also pretty lactose intolerant, so that might've not been the greatest decision I ever made.
Dropping trou minutes later? Also not been the best idea.
She talks sh*t about other clients to me.
My waxer loves to talk about this one lady who comes in for a Brazilian every other Tuesday. She's “at least 70” and "one of those rich Upper East Side ladies, you know who I'm talking about."
This woman also apparently loves to talk about all the tantric sex she has with her lover, a man in his 30s who works in finance. She waxes that woman's lover's eyebrows, and he reportedly asked for her number once.
“It goes to show, you never know what they're doing on the side,” she swore.
Ladies, there's no drama like waxing drama.
She shuts me down when I'm making small talk.
One time, when she and I first became, uh, waxing friends (if that's not a thing, it's about to be) I thought it might be polite to make small talk. As she was looking at my cooch, I kind of wanted to at least know if she was having a good day.
“It's so nice out, isn't it?” I asked, awkwardly.
She didn't look up from the pot of molten wax.
“I don't know, it looked pretty hairy from over here,” she offered.
Note to self: Every time you want to talk, don't.