Yeah. I said it.
It started when I stumbled on this post from Drazil, and if you haven’t read it yet, you must. Really. I’ll wait. A total scream, no?
So, I tweeted out the link and as people read it we began talking about Adventures in Hair Removal. And if you A. Took a moment to read Drazil’s post, and B. Have read any one of the installments of my Three Bodily Functions and an Engagement Ring series, then you know that I love me some good old fashioned TMI. Seriously, I do. Yours and mine, because I’m both a gawker and an exhibitionist. (You’ll also notice that my comment on that post demanded a definition for Lady Nuts. I thought I had a pretty expansive vocabulary, but I had no idea what Lady Nuts were. Do you?)
Well, just when I thought all that needed to be said about skinning the beaver had indeed been said, Drazil’s friend and partner in crime weighed and not only shared with us the actual definition of the aforementioned ladynuts, she too left me laughing and gasping for breath as I read her account of making smooth the monkeybump. So, back to Twitter I went.
By the end of the day I had a collection of Tweets and emails of my own, asking me to share my experiences with the unwrapping of the sexybox. Because it seems it is just assumed that I do in fact have experience in this area.
You were right, natch.
In another time, on another blog far far away, I actually discussed this very topic. I think it’s a good jumping off point for a new series on weeding the love garden. Here’s Part One, a repost from 2008, that we can now call Hello, Kitty. Enjoy.
I am typically not a very hairy person. I can shave my legs once or twice a week and not slice my Trophy Husband’s legs to ribbons. I can shave under my arms every other day without ever looking manly. I don’t wax a moustache or my arms. But, several months ago I got it in my head that I wanted to get a bikini wax. Not one of those crazy South American deals – just a simple, respectable, triangular wax so that I wouldn’t have to worry about the looks of the south mouth as bathing suit season approached.
There was just one little problem – expense. No extra money for frivolous hair removal these days, much as I’d like to plan a day at the salon grooming lulu.
Trophy Husband, on the other hand, is a bit hairy. Not on his head, mind you, but his shoulders and back are a little, uh, fuzzy. Being a good and loyal wife, a few times a year I help him “manage the hair,” usually with some combination of clippers, razors, and a Nair product. This year, however, because I had it in me to try something new, we bought an at home wax kit. I would make his shoulders and back as smooth as a baby’s bottom. And in return, he’d de-beard the clam.
He went first, and I LOVED IT. Seriously, it worked SO WELL. I mean, aside from his yelping and wincing and sweating like a girly man, his shoulders were smooth and hairless as the day he was born. (And there were hardly any welts at all.) Of course I did a fair amount of teasing when he complained, because, well, it didn’t LOOK like it hurt, and besides, I’VE HAD BABIES. No comparison to the zip of the strip as we mangroomed my love.
So, needless to say, I was feeling brave and more than a little cocky, and decided the bikini line was a go. Trophy Husband proceeded to put a glop of wax on my (very delicate) triangle of love, and we waited a few seconds for it to set.
And I began to sweat.
And even panic.
There was no way he was qualified to do this. No way he could zip off the little strip without removing something medically necessary for enjoyable adult playtime. And no way I could handle the pain of ripping off the little strip of wax. Or even just the thought of pain. I F.R.E.A.K.E.D. Freaked. TOTALLY freaked.
And I wouldn’t let him rip off the strip.
After a few minutes of crying, dousing the area in baby oil, heating it up with the hair dryer, and did I mention crying, Trophy Husband managed to lift the strip up high enough to slide in some nail scissors and actually trim the strip off of the hair. And, of course, he teased me for all of my wincing and crying and yelping through the process. With all of the indignance I could muster, I tried to make him feel guilty for teasing me when I all I really needed was my big strong man to save the day.
And he said, “Honey, quit being such a girl.”