Wonder Lips

It’s been a while since I really got it on so I’m thinking of getting my hot pocket waxed this weekend to give my husband the impression that the man under the mask hasn’t turned into Choobaka.

The last and only time I ventured to step into a wax parlor was on the eve of my best friends wedding. We were in one of those nail salons where the manicurist speaks good english and there are a few random white people working behind the scenes. While I enjoy a whitey, I would much rather prefer a brown skinned lady with the surname “Jane” when everyone really knows its Long Duck Dong. In preparation for our mani/ pedi ritual, we snuck in a few vodka drinks to loosen the mood, after all, it was a wedding weekend and shit can get tense. As usual, I choose a strapping radiant red for my nails and paws. Red seems to be the ultimate color associated with a Lane Bryant wearing, Dove washing, Texas living woman, and I’m all for those things, so it works.

There I am, sitting in the mani chair, pissed that I didn’t sneak in my vodka flask when I realize that the overweight blonde whitey working behind the scenes isn’t shooting clips for Avatar 2 in the backroom. I ask what’s up when she explains she’s a pube sculptor, kinda like the Michelangelo of Vaginas. Before I know it, she plops a catalogue of pubic art down on my lap and says, “what will it be?”… I look over at my best friend and mull over the martini pube look…. I’m not really a martini girl so I turn the page. Am I a calligraphy girl? Probably not, JAF doesn’t seem to be the sex symbol that I want pulsating out of my pants for the next four weeks….. ultimately, I decide on a classic. I figure the brazilin is kind of like the Crate & Barrel of vagina waxes – clean lines, simple and to the point.

So let’s go, I’m ready…. I’ve been told to saddle up with a few pain killers but I decide that the vodka’s over brunch may be able to hold me over and mute the feeling in my lower torso, it hasn’t let me down in the bedroom before so I go with my gut and turn down the “tylenol”.

I small talk with Tammy, she’s from east Texas and even met her best friend during a wax. They’ve been inseperable for the last two years. I think to myself, “could Tammy and I be new best friends after this?” I mean, my girlfriends were anxiously awaiting outside the private room but maybe they’re old news. I could use a fresh start, I could really relate to someone like Tammy. She was overweight, an un-natural blonde and clearly a people person. I respected the fact that I could see her dark roots. I took that as a sign for her genuine ability to connect to all hair types, she liked to party but kept the roots real. I was into it. Tammy stepped out of the room while I placed a sticky note sized cottony wax paper material over my chili dawg. I awaited anxiously for Tammy’s return. What will we talk about? Will she be weirded out with my Whoopie Goldberg sized roots? Will she have to comb it before we get started? I was fraught with anxious excitement.

She retuned to the room. Here we go. We get going. UMMMMMM, Tammy…… no, really, Tammy………………………………. um, girl……….. girl……… Mammy……. Sammy….. oh fuck.

After the first tug of hardened wax I instantly knew this was going to end badly. Maybe I had misread this whole scenario, maybe dark headed girls aren’t meant to be bare backed, maybe we’re more complicated than that. I was convincing myself that I was an organic earthy type that didn’t need to be forced into worldly ideas of the contemporary woman. I AM A WOMAN, not meant to be defined by pubic pop culture. The horror continued until finally I told ole Tammy girl to cool it. She explained to me that we had only completed the top portion of my cave-lady exterior. It didn’t matter, I couldn’t look at Tammy anymore much less feel the pain of her late night FX inspired tools to touch my most private region. I was done with this scene and done with Tammy.

I waddled out of the Tammy’s torture chamber feeling like one of Madoff’s victims, robbed, lied to and betrayed…. why had she not prepared me? Explained to me the repercussions of my non existent top sided lady like figure?

I approach my girlfriends. They immediately ask how it went…. I explain that I had to cut Tammy short, that things got out of hand in there and that I would never trust a whitey in a nail salon again. As I explained the horrific ordeal, the reaction from my friends is not exactly what I had anticipated. I thought surely they would want to take on Tammy, give her a piece of their minds for ripping off (me) their best friend’s pube nation. Instead, the reaction was mixed. They couldn’t believe that I stopped at the upper north side. It never occurred to me that a bare north side and an hairy lower ceiling could lead to such antagonism. As feeling in my lady area came back, I realized that maybe this had all been Tammy’s plan from the beginning, after all, her catalogue of pubic art had never included the Stevie Wonder Lips. I had been hers for the taking, like a drive by wax that I didn’t see coming.

So as date night approaches one year later and I contemplate a wax, I am reminded of this memory. I wonder how many innocent vaginas fell into Tammy’s cunning trap of artistry and con? I never reported her so I’m sure she’s still out there, lurking among the naive pubic community. I think I’ll just run to Walgreens and get a new razor, he won’t even know the difference.

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