Hey ladies, are the pores on your vagina too big? Are there too many stray or ingrown hairs? Well, this stuff matters, apparently, and now you officially have something new to be totally self-conscious about. You need a vajacial, a wonderful-sounding portmanteau of "vagina" and "facial."
In an essay for Lena Dunham and Jenni Konner's Lenny Letter, Jenny Slate writes of her "only vajacial." Slate's curiosity got the best of her and before she knew it, she had a hardening clay mask on the outside of her lower bits. This is an entertaining story, and a cautionary tale.
Without further ado, here is a selection from the short nonfiction piece by Jenny Slate, "No One Needs a Vajacial, But I Got One."
I’ve always been afraid that someone will tell someone else that I have a bad smell. This stems from overhearing those high school boys who want both to have sex with a vagina but also to disparage one. I remember a dumb asshole talking about how he finally “ate Ashley out, because it just needed to happen, so I just fuckin’ held my nose and went for it, and then I put in a whole pack of Trident,” as if he were a young hero whose dear grandmother had dropped her diamond ring in a toilet full of shit, and he had bravely bobbed for it and retrieved it, face first. It makes sense that even though I’d never been afraid or ashamed of my vagina, when I heard vaginas spoken about this way — I was 17 — I got scared that maybe my vagina was against me, that it had a mind of its own and a bad attitude.
This is what I was thinking as I drove myself to get my very first-ever, and probably only-ever “Vajacial.” The Vajacial is billed as a facial, but for your pussy. I wasn’t sure how major it was going to be. I enjoy getting my face cleaned, and I like the idea of deep, weird dirts getting taken out of my face skin so that I can have a clean face to show everyone. But my vagina is, well, not a face. I don’t prefer to show it to everyone, and I do enjoy bathing it without any help.
The fact that The Vajacial exists seems to insist that we need it. And although nobody can intimidate me about my vagina anymore like that 17-year-old boy did in the ’90s, I started to feel intimidated by the creeping unknown of: “What if there is something off about me and my body and I don’t know about it? And my happiness is about to be ruined?”