“Okay, now please lay on your stomach. And if you could just put one hand on each…yes, exactly like that. Oh, could you just spread the cheeks a little more…Oh yes, yes exactly like that. Great.”

 

            This is the beginning of pornographic content. Sexual, thrilling, sensual words that will make your body tingle from head to toe. Take it easy, I’m joking. These words mean pain. I hear them every month, or really every time I gather the courage. Right after laying on the table, naked, legs spread in the ‘butterfly’ position, I turn around, naked, and spread my cheeks open to facilitate the process of hair removal. 

“Excuse me?” came out of my mouth the first time I was asked if I wanted to get my butthole waxed. The discomfort never goes away. And yet I still haven’t been able to simply reply, “no I’m okay, let’s just move down to the legs.” 

            I cannot count the number of times I’ve heard women complain of the pain and tears caused by hot liquid wax hardening on their skin, only to rip each and every hair from their body. “I was bleeding this time it was awful.” “I can never shave again, it makes it so much worse.” “The woman didn’t know what she was doing! It’s never hurt so badly.” All common words. All relating to pain. But never has the uneasiness, the sexual nature, or the pervasive humiliation of it all been brought up. There is nothing about waxing that isn’t awful. Just think about it. 

            You come into the shop and walk up to the counter. The receptionist checks you in and asks you to repeat the parts of the body you wish to have waxed. You look around to know who your crowd is. Five other individuals are waiting so you choose to whisper your answer. “What? I’m sorry I didn’t get that,” replies the receptionist. Now five more people know where your body grows unwelcome hair (yes, toe hair does exist). You haven’t even walked into the chamber of horrors and the embarrassment has already begun. After hearing your name called, a woman (if you’re lucky) escorts you to the small room and instructs you to remove your clothing. You comply and stand nakedly next to the cushioned, flat surface covered with the world’s worst paper — the kind you find on chairs at the dentist’s or in middle school infirmaries. You try to lie down gracefully before the beauty ritual begins, but in vain. Instead you nervously position yourself over and over again, scooting up and down the surface, wrinkling and tearing the paper beneath you. Before the beautician returns with the wax, the paper is already more ripped than a member of the Magic Mike cast. She opens the door and barely notices the torn-up disaster, because her eyes are too busy conveying absolute shock as she scrutinizes your hairy body. That’s when the real pain begins. You feel judged but repress it by saying to yourself, “she’s seen so much worse.” “We’re going to start with the hardest,” she explains as she turns on the fan and requests that you move into the butterfly position. 

            Thirty minutes later you’re walking home, look down at your receipt and grasp that you just spent over $60 to suffer through pain, judgment and embarrassment. Flashbacks flood your thoughts. Telling the beautician, “I did trim” and having her question how long the hair was before. Queefing when moving onto your stomach. Having to move into ‘child’s pose’ to better expose your asshole. Feeling the wax get stuck in there because of the thickness of your hair. Getting your hole’s perimeter tickled in trying to remove the glued wax. Feeling your skin burn because the wax got too hot in the meantime. Despite the reality of this microtrauma, you still lie when your sister asks how it went. You respond with the rehearsed speech and the “oh, but last time was worse” and the “I maybe should’ve done the full leg instead of the half.” Somehow, the fact that someone just spread liquid wax on your vagina and between your butt cheeks is left undiscussed. Somehow, it isn’t supposed to be interpreted as strange or sexual, but as a perfectly normal part of a grown woman’s routine.