On Brazilian Bikini Waxes and Language Barriers

The general theory being that the two should not mix.

Allow me to elaborate:
My former bikini waxer made yet another move last month, and this time she managed to exceed the maximum driving distance I allow for personal hygiene. I was much chagrined. After all, weird as she was (and let's face it, what former-lesbian-turned-straight opera singer/bikini waxer isn't weird) she did a phenomenal wax. There was nothing better than flouncing around my bathroom naked, admiring my clean, pink girlie parts after a good waxing.

When I began waxing a few years ago, I started with the typical conservative bikini wax. Then I moved up to the slightly less conservative "modified" bikini wax. And by the time last spring rolled around I said to hell with it and went for the full monty - leaving only a quaint racing stripe between me and a completely pre-pubescent version of myself. I've stuck to this look through thick and thin - surgery and recovery - and all the other ups and downs. My waxer, as you might imagine, was no fading violet. She meant business - no paper panties here, ladies (cause, let's face it, when a woman's got her face two inches from your naughties, paper panties will do nothing but get in the way). She told hilarious stories to distract you from what was really going on, and NEVER left so much as one stray hair. When she declared you "done" you were in fact, done.

But now, with my wax chick out of reach, I needed a new plan of attack. Assuming that there had to be another capable woman somewhere on my side of town, I called up the newest shi-shi salon and day spa and scheduled an appointment. Excited, I arrived fifteen minutes early. And by the time the clock said fifteen minutes past my appointment, it became clear to me that someone had dropped the ball.

I stopped a woman who came back to get another client and asked if I'd been forgotten. Ah, but she had difficulty with English. Finally, she returned and managed to covey that she would be taking me back for my waxing herself. Marina was her name, and apparently, she's quite newly arrived from Russia. But I assume she's going to be able to do her job, despite the language divide.

Alas, there were the paper panties to deal with, but hey, I'll give anything a try once. After ten minutes or so, she invited me (I think) to sit up and see if everything was to my liking. It wasn't. What she had done was the standard bikini wax. No biggie. I'll just tell her (using comical hand gestures) to take everything off except the racing stripe, indicated by pointing and drawing imaginary lines. Five minutes more, and she asks my opinion again.

Nope. Now she's taken off most of the racing stripe and left lots of other stuff. I try again with more pointing and gesticulating and awkward smiles. Five more minutes. Now I have a tiny, half a postage stamp sized patch just floating there and looking weird.

Fine. You know what? Take it all off. No point in leaving just that. Just give me a clean slate. Five more minutes and a bit of plucking with tweezers and I'm ready to go. When she leaves the room to allow me to dress, I stand up and take a gander in the full length mirror. Staring back at me is a version of myself I hadn't seen since I used to take daily baths instead of showers.

Strangely, my husband didn't seem to find the difference very discouraging.

The moral of the story: a common language is crucial when it comes to Brazilian bikini waxes.