Wax on, Wax off

For the bravest warriors

The evolution of the razor is glorious.

The very first razor I used was a single-blade, blue, Bic men’s razor. I recall looking into the rusted corners of that razor and thinking I’m a woman now – I’ve arrived.

Looking back, I’m horrified. I nicked myself several times with that royal blue bacteria factory. It’s a wonder I didn’t contract an infection and end up with scarring or some other permanent disfigurement.

For some women, the decision to wax or shave the thicket in their lady garden is one that comes quite easily. Not for me.

By 15, I had been using razors for a while. I was comfortable – expanding my territory. Still, much like other teens my age, I was bound to whatever brand my parents kept on hand. My mom seemed to favor frugality. Whichever brand my father was using, she was too.

It was about this time that I decided to explore my womanhood.

Thank holy fuck this also coincided with my mother’s breakup with the evil, single-blade men’s razor.

Welcome the debut of the double-blade, pink Daisy razor [angelic music echoing in the background].

We had something all our own

There are an incredible amount of folds in the female anatomy. Did you guys know that? I had no clue that kind of labyrinth existed! I had so many questions. Daisy and I would map this new terrain together. God forbid I read a book, ask my mom, or watch a tutorial. Old me is grateful that young me never had the opportunity to look-up: Shaving Genitals, A Guide on YouTube.

I did all manner of stupid shit to see that area and to shave. I sat on the bathtub floor with a mirror, I threw a leg up on the sink counter and lunged forward, I even squatted over the mirror. That’s terrifying. Don’t ever do that unless you’re creating a documentary, a horror film, or porn.

What I learned though, is that we’re incredibly unique. All those swirls and folds are like a fingerprint. A fingerprint that I was desperately trying to hack away at with a powder pink razor that came 3 to a pack for $3.49 at Safeway.

My labia’s integrity was up for grabs for the modest price of $3.49.

I saw this as a rite of passage. Because beginning menstruation and bleeding from my goddamn vagina once a month didn’t count. Growing breasts and being taunted by immature boys wasn’t enough validation. Hitting a growth spurt before all my other classmates, putting me a full foot taller than anyone in my class was not an indication of my maturity.

Accidentally mutilating my genitals, or having the potential to do so, was what would crown me a Queen. Fucking idiot.

Years would go by; trends would change in the personal care industry. Tools would advance and streamline.

Packaging has become more child and tamper-resistant. Product quality hasn’t changed much over the years. Women’s razors are still bullshit. We haven’t been paying for an improved product, ladies. We’ve been paying for the packing with the floral insert and the handle that boasts it’s “non-slip.”

I don’t give a fuck how many times I drop that son-of-a-bitch, do my legs feel like a Brillo pad 20 mins after I shave? For each time I pick it up in the shower, I’ll count it like a squat and add it to my work out. My legs better never have a five-o’clock shadow. That’s fucking nonsense!

I gave up adhering to gender-focused products. In fact, I did a full stop and about-face.

Men’s razors are the jam! Turns out Gillette is the best this bitch can get.

I use men’s razors and men’s deodorant. I. Don’t. Give. A. Fuck. These products I find to be not only superior but also typically more affordable than their female counterparts.

Perhaps I can’t get my underarms smelling like a floral patch in Spring, but I save myself $2 per bar on average. I also share with my husband so I cut my spending in half for the household. Eat a dick, Secret. I never much liked the smell of Spring flowers anyhow.

I’ve been considering waxing the garden of good and evil lately.

I’m comfortable with my Mach3 Turbo. I’ve learned over the years to navigate around even the most sensitive topography. Having anyone other than someone I intend to bang inspect my most private areas has never scored highly on my list of ‘shit to get done just because.’

I am perfectly adept at humiliating myself all on my own, thank you very much.

A girlfriend of mine [a cosmetologist] recently asked if I’d like her to help me out with this dilemma. Um, that’s a hard no, girlfriend. While I appreciate the offer and truly value our deep friendship, I see no reason for you to be anywhere near my vagina unless you’re playing shortstop in the labor & delivery room.

Let’s get real right-quick. I’m not pushing a human through there. I didn’t do it the first time. I’m almost 40. I sprained something in my neck sitting down on my couch two days ago. There are parts of me that crack and creak when I move. You could record various bodily sounds of mine for a scary children’s book. At the sound of the gurgling tummy and heartburn onset, turn the page.

What takes place during a waxing? Is this woman is going to look at me and say, “Daisy razor?” I can’t handle that kind of rejection. She’s going to know all the humiliating poses I get into trying to do this shit on my own. This will be my worst fears actualized.

I imagine that I’d try to keep myself focused on something like old, weathered taint. Or, ingrown hairs on an obese man’s backside – something to distract me from the fact that someone is, for better or worse, touching me in all the right places. Boils and taints and goiters, oh my! Boils and taints and goiters, oh my! Repeat as needed.

Men, if you’re getting your asshole examined, have you never had to remind your dick to behave itself? I can’t be the only person to have this thought cross their mind.

Maybe I should just keep Edward Scissorhanding my business. It seems far less complicated. All I have to fear is permanent disfigurement or lasting loss of sensation. That’s a drop in the bucket weighed against my fear of condemnation and ridicule.

It’s art, motherfuckers

They’re not zits! It’s razor burn!!

I’m easily embarrassed. I don’t know how to order what I want. Will there be photos on the wall that I can simply point to; a perfectly coiffed muff? If I bring in a photo of a hairless cat, will that suffice? I want you to make me look like this, thanks.

I’m in the R&D stage. Just pounding out the thoughts helps. There’s a “pounding” joke in there, but I’ll just leave it there.

Boils and taints and goiters, oh my!

3 thoughts on “Wax on, Wax off

  1. If you go through with it, I loom forward to Part 2 of the story. I’ve never done it. You just might be braver than me! And I’m finally, seriously considering a tattoo (not down there, just in general – pain comparison of sorts) 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Now you made me feel like a real pussy for complaining about the Hitler mustache… Why is it that any “issue” men have — women have it times 10 or 100 (or infinity in the case of child birth).

    Liked by 1 person

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