TMI Thursday: Hair Today....Gone Tomorrow

My waxist is a Nazi. And she has been carrying out illicit-amoral experiments on my nether region. You know that scene in The 40 Year-old Virgin, where Steve Carrell actually gets his chest waxed by a giggling asian beautician?

Well, its true. Except she's an Indian version of satan with a price on my vagina's head (?!?). Perhaps a poor diction. Anywho...she sucks...but do you know what sucks more? The fact that I always take her back.

There are few positions more awkward than having your legs behind your head on a table stolen from a gynecologist's office veiled with a thin piece of paper that sticks to your ass which is sweating in anticipation of the vaginal pain your body is about to shudder through. The only thing that can make this situation more awkward is being naked from the waist down and having a woman you barely know berate you for missing your scheduled appointment a month ago. The one you skipped because females of our species are, at times, also driven solely be their genitalia. Although, to be fair, I can't fault her (my who-ha) for acts of self-preservation. I think that makes me genetically viable or something. Also, lets be honest, it was a hard day and if I'd visited the waxing warlord I definitely would've left crying.

I know I'm not the only one...waxing hurts like hell. But, Oprah-help me, I keep going back. And I know I'm not alone. Women the world over go every month. In spite of the fact that there is something wrong with hoping that one day, like your mother before you, your skin will be desensitized enough to leave a waxing session without a single salty tear rolling down your cheek. There's also the hope that you'll get married and give up...which I unfortunately wouldn't. At least there's electrolysis. But I kind of feel like I should harvest some eggs, just in case, before I go down that road.

So yeah....TMI...

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