It started just like any other day. I woke up, had some breakfast, and took a look at my to-do list.  Item number one: schedule a Brazilian wax with Kim.  So I called.  And the receptionist was all nonchalant with her “oh, actually, Kim no longer works here.”

Before falling to the floor in dramatic agony, I managed to squeal “Um, what the fuck did you say?”  And this receptionist is all “she’s pursuing another career path, but I’d be happy to set up an appointment for you with Laura, she’s taking over most of Kim’s clients.”

Okay, first of all?  What career path is she pursuing?  What’s the natural next step after waxing vaginas?  Secondly, WHY DIDN’T SHE CALL ME TO LET ME KNOW?  Okay we’re not best friends or anything, but SHE DOES STUFF TO MY VAGINA.  I guess the fact that our entire relationship is based on money and vagina (woah, if this is a game of six degrees of prostitution, I’m only one degree away) means that maybe I think we’re closer than we really are?  I don’t know.

So anyway, this new chick, I don’t know her and she doesn’t know me and yet I’m not more than two steps in the door and she’s calling me “love” and “baby” and telling me she’s going to take good care of me.  Which makes me question whether this Brazilian wax will come with a happy ending.  For a minute, I can’t decide if I’m horrified or potentially interested, but then she calls me “baby” again and I scoot toward horrified.

I mean listen, I totally get the use of generic pet names.  I do it, I call everyone “hun,” but I figure it’s acceptable because when I say it, I’m not TWO INCHES FROM THEIR VAGINA.

So she starts in on the waxing, which is fine at first, no more or less painful than normal.  Until suddenly, it’s a LOT more painful than normal, she’s making concerned clicking noises with her tongue, and I look down and see that there’s an enormous patch of wax stuck to my skin.  Just… stuck there, and she’s trying frantically to remove it, but.. no go.

Time goes by, lots and lots of time, and the wax isn’t going anywhere.  Whatever the hell she’s doing is certainly painful, but also ineffective.  The wax is stuck, my skin is swelling, and her apology includes something about it being a brand new kind of wax, which is a horseshit excuse because if that’s the case lady, maybe you should have tried it on your own goddamn vagina first.  MY VAGINA IS NOT YOUR GUINEA PIG.

After that, she spent the rest of the appointment hunched over, trying to remove the seemingly permanent wax while muttering about how “this has never ever happened in her 15 years of waxing vaginas.” Which comforted me about as much as someone saying, “well, we’ve killed your dog and stolen all your money, but here’s a grape flavored lollipop.”  BECAUSE WHO THE FUCK LIKES THE GRAPE ONES??

Luckily, after the better part of my life had passed me by on that damn table, she was able to get the wax off, but by that point my skin was having such a bad reaction to it that we couldn’t continue.  So I was forced to leave with HALF A WAXED VAGINA.

HALF A WAXED VAGINA!!!

Oh, and to answer the inevitable questions: no, I certainly didn’t pay for this and yes, I’ve since had it redone and my vagina looks just lovely, thanks.