Explain Why A Good Lady Groomer Is More Difficult Than Choosing A Gynocologist
Finding a good lady groomer is more difficult than choosing a gynocologist. I don’t get weirded out about doctors looking at my in-between because it’s so clinical. Sure, your stuff is being prodded by metallic things while a nurse is standing in a corner watching, but at least you’re partially covered with a paper gown. My doctor even puts a sheet over my legs and makes a curtain to hide behind like he’s some kind of Wizard of Vag. And that’s great, because then I don’t have to see his face and analyze every expression to try and figure out why in the heck he’s smirking, smiling, frowning, or looking liked he’s frightened of my lady junk. One time my doctor even asked me if he could bring some interns in to check out my stuff and I said “Sure! The more the merrier!”
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That’s how much I don’t care.
But going to a waxer is different.
Without the white medical coat, the tie, and the Harvard degree, things take on a totally different vibe.
Things go from clinical to peep show real fast when you’re laying on a table, butt naked from the waist down, waiting for someone wearing jeans and a t-shirt to go poking around your in-between. And even if they’re wearing scrubs, that’s not fooling me into thinking that they are nursey or doctory. There’s a place just down the road from my house where I could go buy my own scrubs if I wanted to. I could wear them everywhere everyday, but that doesn’t mean you should let me give you a colonoscopy.
Thank God.
So finding someone that makes you feel comfortable and trusty is kind of a big deal.
After trying a few different people I had finally found one that I loved. The pain level was low, the conversation was fun, and the awkwardness wasn’t even an issue because we were having such a good time talking that I totally forgot she was grooming my cracks and
crevices.
Then one day I received the call that no waxee ever wants to receive. She had left to take another, better job. A job that didn’t involve waxing. She was moving uptown and my downtown was gonna suffer.
It was like the end of a marriage. I had to start “dating” again and every first date involved letting the person see my crotch up close. So basically it’s like I got divorced and became a whore.
Last week I tried a the third girl in what is turning out to be a very long line of re-bound waxers. And long story short, it just didn’t work out.
Just kidding. Like I could EVER make a long story short. Have you not MET me?
So this new girl was very quiet. “Quiet” as in she totally didn’t say a word. And there was no music in the room either. So basically I’m just laying there, pantsless, legs akimbo, in a room so eerily quiet that you could hear a pubic hair drop. That kinda silent awkwardness is just not okay with me. I like chit chat. I like to tell jokes. I like laughter. I like singing. I like to yell out inventive curses as the wax is brutally ripped off of my nethers (Sweet Baby Jesus on a Tilt-a-Whirl and Holy Ballsack are two of my favorites).
But this girl wasn’t having that.
She had long hair. Like, nearly to her waist. Do you know what happens when someone with long hair is waxing your in-between? Their hair dangles around down there. It dangles all over your lady junk and gets freakishly close to the wax. When you have a girl tossing her long locks all over your pubic area, you start to feel super awkward because it feels pretty lesbiany. And supposedly you aren’t a lesbian. So to offset the awkwardness, you close your eyes and try to imagine that it’s a long haired dude down there. But the only dudes that pop into your mind are Fabio and Steven Tyler, so you start to gag a little bit and decide that you’d rather be an accidental surprise lesbian instead. You also start to worry that her hair might get trapped in the wax, causing the two of you to be stuck together in the most awkward of ways for all of eternity. And what do you do when you have another chick permanently attached to your lady garden? What kind of life can you have? What kind of job can you get aside from becoming a weird porn duo or a Sideshow Freak?
And this whole time the room is so damn quiet that your mind can’t stop analyzing and over-thinking everything. Normally when you have a stranger down in your valley you don’t wanna focus on it too much. You want distractions. So you’re really missing your old waxer and your funny conversations and your singing along to the 70′s love songs she used to play, and all of the things that really took your mind off of the fact that your lady hair was being violently removed at a follicular level. Then, as you look up at the ceiling praying for this to be over, you notice a water stain and comment aloud that it looks exactly like a vagina. But there is no acknowledgement that she heard you. And there is no laughter. There is only more awkward silence.
Even though that water stain TOTALLY looked like a vagina.
You know that your old waxer would have agreed. Your old waxer just “got” you. Your old waxer laughed at all of your jokes. Your old waxer had short hair and she did not get that short hair ANYWHERE close to your lady junk.
I miss my old waxer. I miss her bad. If you see her please tell her to look for me. I shouldn’t be hard to find. I’ll be the one that looks like I’m smuggling a furry animal in my bikini bottom. Or has a chia pet growing out of my pants zipper. There’s also a good chance that you might catch me on an episode of Finding Bigfoot. . Add to that the extra body hair catastrophe and I’m just begging to be the target of an Animal Planet investigation. If I’m sitting by the pool one day and see people with binoculars and a giant net moving around in the bushes making sasquatch calls, I’ll totally know what’s up. When I was a little girl I always thought that someday I’d be on a TV show. I guess I just pictured a TV version of Annie or a sort of Laverne and Shirley or Carol Burnett Show type situation. I never really imagined that it would revolve around my hoo-ha. Little girls have lots of dreams, but that’s not usually one of them. At least I hope not. Thank GOD summer is over!!
That’s how much I don’t care.
But going to a waxer is different.
Without the white medical coat, the tie, and the Harvard degree, things take on a totally different vibe.
Things go from clinical to peep show real fast when you’re laying on a table, butt naked from the waist down, waiting for someone wearing jeans and a t-shirt to go poking around your in-between. And even if they’re wearing scrubs, that’s not fooling me into thinking that they are nursey or doctory. There’s a place just down the road from my house where I could go buy my own scrubs if I wanted to. I could wear them everywhere everyday, but that doesn’t mean you should let me give you a colonoscopy.
Thank God.
So finding someone that makes you feel comfortable and trusty is kind of a big deal.
After trying a few different people I had finally found one that I loved. The pain level was low, the conversation was fun, and the awkwardness wasn’t even an issue because we were having such a good time talking that I totally forgot she was grooming my cracks and
crevices.
Then one day I received the call that no waxee ever wants to receive. She had left to take another, better job. A job that didn’t involve waxing. She was moving uptown and my downtown was gonna suffer.
It was like the end of a marriage. I had to start “dating” again and every first date involved letting the person see my crotch up close. So basically it’s like I got divorced and became a whore.
Last week I tried a the third girl in what is turning out to be a very long line of re-bound waxers. And long story short, it just didn’t work out.
Just kidding. Like I could EVER make a long story short. Have you not MET me?
So this new girl was very quiet. “Quiet” as in she totally didn’t say a word. And there was no music in the room either. So basically I’m just laying there, pantsless, legs akimbo, in a room so eerily quiet that you could hear a pubic hair drop. That kinda silent awkwardness is just not okay with me. I like chit chat. I like to tell jokes. I like laughter. I like singing. I like to yell out inventive curses as the wax is brutally ripped off of my nethers (Sweet Baby Jesus on a Tilt-a-Whirl and Holy Ballsack are two of my favorites).
But this girl wasn’t having that.
She had long hair. Like, nearly to her waist. Do you know what happens when someone with long hair is waxing your in-between? Their hair dangles around down there. It dangles all over your lady junk and gets freakishly close to the wax. When you have a girl tossing her long locks all over your pubic area, you start to feel super awkward because it feels pretty lesbiany. And supposedly you aren’t a lesbian. So to offset the awkwardness, you close your eyes and try to imagine that it’s a long haired dude down there. But the only dudes that pop into your mind are Fabio and Steven Tyler, so you start to gag a little bit and decide that you’d rather be an accidental surprise lesbian instead. You also start to worry that her hair might get trapped in the wax, causing the two of you to be stuck together in the most awkward of ways for all of eternity. And what do you do when you have another chick permanently attached to your lady garden? What kind of life can you have? What kind of job can you get aside from becoming a weird porn duo or a Sideshow Freak?
And this whole time the room is so damn quiet that your mind can’t stop analyzing and over-thinking everything. Normally when you have a stranger down in your valley you don’t wanna focus on it too much. You want distractions. So you’re really missing your old waxer and your funny conversations and your singing along to the 70′s love songs she used to play, and all of the things that really took your mind off of the fact that your lady hair was being violently removed at a follicular level. Then, as you look up at the ceiling praying for this to be over, you notice a water stain and comment aloud that it looks exactly like a vagina. But there is no acknowledgement that she heard you. And there is no laughter. There is only more awkward silence.
Even though that water stain TOTALLY looked like a vagina.
You know that your old waxer would have agreed. Your old waxer just “got” you. Your old waxer laughed at all of your jokes. Your old waxer had short hair and she did not get that short hair ANYWHERE close to your lady junk.
I miss my old waxer. I miss her bad. If you see her please tell her to look for me. I shouldn’t be hard to find. I’ll be the one that looks like I’m smuggling a furry animal in my bikini bottom. Or has a chia pet growing out of my pants zipper. There’s also a good chance that you might catch me on an episode of Finding Bigfoot. . Add to that the extra body hair catastrophe and I’m just begging to be the target of an Animal Planet investigation. If I’m sitting by the pool one day and see people with binoculars and a giant net moving around in the bushes making sasquatch calls, I’ll totally know what’s up. When I was a little girl I always thought that someday I’d be on a TV show. I guess I just pictured a TV version of Annie or a sort of Laverne and Shirley or Carol Burnett Show type situation. I never really imagined that it would revolve around my hoo-ha. Little girls have lots of dreams, but that’s not usually one of them. At least I hope not. Thank GOD summer is over!!