Hello, my name is Phoebe, and I'm an addict.
I've let countless women examine my most intimate areas with a bright light and sometimes even a magnifying glass. I've endured endless smart-alecky comments while on my front holding my bum cheeks oh-so-delicately apart, like, "Now smile for my camera!"
This Brazilian waxing business has got to stop. Men are getting so used to it that these days nothing but the total shearing will do. It adds hours of pain and a cost of countless dollars to women's basic beauty regime. Now, to go on a date, you not only have to take a shower; you have to be fully prepared everywhere.
I'm part of the problem, not part of the solution.
For those of you who've been living in Playboy-circa-1978 bush land for 25 years, a quick update. A Brazilian wax is when they remove all your down-there hair, in, out and around back. Sometimes they leave a tiny little "landing strip" for the plane.
It isn't for the faint-hearted. My friend had one labia done and passed out on the table. I, however, am of hardier and more determined stock.
My relationship with the Brazilian goes back about five years. The first time I saw a bare kitty was when my then-roommate, a stripper, decided to have a conversation with me sans bottoms in our hallway about the recycling schedule. Hard, quite honestly, to tear one's eyes away.
Like all addictions, I don't even remember how it became an obsession. I do remember my first time, when the wisecracking Scottish woman making me a girl again suddenly came at me with a massive pair of scissors. "Oh, don't worry," she said cheerfully. "Your wee man in a boat is safe with me!"
I have converted at least two boyfriends to the dark, bare-as-a-baby side.
I had one boyfriend who would send greetings and salutations to my waxer, feeling strangely close to her even though they'd never officially met.
For my next boyfriend, I had her wax his initial into my love forest for Valentine's Day. When I switched to a cheaper, less thorough esthetician, he gave critiques. "The other one is better," he announced definitively. He'd never had a girlfriend before who did the full monty, but pretty soon he, too, was addicted and wouldn't tolerate more than four weeks without a visit. I considered making him split the bills at $50 to $75 a shot, perfect hairlessness doesn't come cheap.
After I sent that boyfriend on his merry way, I got a drinks invite from a man I'd had a massive crush on for a while. I'm not a give-it-up-on-the-first-date kind of girl, but somehow I felt the feng shui was all wrong if I showed up to the first date of the rest of my life in need of the weed whacker. It was my version of "Build it and he will come," a little prayer to the universe. Off I ran to my torturer.
That night, of course, I didn't take him home, but he kept me all blushy with e-mails and phone calls and promises for the next several weeks. I went away on a business trip and fantasized madly about him. When I returned, ready for our rumoured second date, I scurried back to my torturer, just in case.
That very night, while I was still smarting from my devotion to beauty, he called to tell me some other filly had closed the deal, and that the bidding on this particular dream boy was now closed.
I quickly did the math. I'd gotten not one, but two aspirational Brazilian waxes for that man. While he bought the drinks on our date, as far as I can figure he still owes me $100.