There are a few things you should never have done to your body via a Groupon.
Heart surgery, vein removal, anything involving lasers, and, as I found out, bikini waxing. Because once the waxing price drops below $39, the gloves come off. Along with a few layers of skin, muscle function and your dignity.
Nobody feels sorry for you when you hurt yourself getting a bikini wax. I learned that this week after I pulled a muscle/pinched a nerve/almost died while getting my ladybits landscaped. I should have just told everyone I fell off the stage at a Furries convention and saved myself the embarrassment.
“You injured yourself how?" my husband giggled after I begged him for another dose of Motrin. “Well, I hope you don't need a doctor because Obamacare doesn't cover hot wax injuries. That's why the Republicans hate him."
My friend Anne wasn't even that nice and just replied to my “I'm hurt" text with a GIF of Patti LaBelle covering her mouth.
The whole stupid thing is my own fault for not just leaving the salon when I first suspected that the waxing session wasn't going to turn out well. Unfortunately I was lying pantless on a table at the time, and I'd just told the burly, green haired esthetician—let's call her Ripper—that I wanted a Bikini wax.
"A Brazilian?" she asked.
"No, a Bikini."
"A Brazilian?" she repeated.
"Like, do you want me to take off all the hair on your perineum?"
Then, while I was trying to remember A) What my perineum was B) Where my perineum was and C) If Norwegians even grow hair on their perineums, Ripper dipped a tongue depressor in a vat of hot wax, held it over my face and whispered, “Remove the towel from your vagina and butterfly your legs for me, Wendi."
Q: What would Hannibal Lecter say if he worked at a day spa?
A: See above
Ripper then took a deep breath and went to town on my bikini area, rhythmically pasting scalding hot wax on my skin and roughly tearing it off, while also being casually conversational like she'd been instructed to be by management. “So, how's your summer going so far?" RIIIIPPPPP. “Seen any good movies?" RIIIIPPPPPP “I can't believe how hot it is today." RIIIIPPPP.
By the time she finished the right leg and stood back to admire her handiwork, I was floating on the ceiling, gazing down at my waxed nether regions and deciding if I should just go into the light already. In my version of Heaven, there are no swimsuits or bikini wax Groupons. But then Ripper clapped her hands together and announced, “Time for the labia!"
“The labia! I'm ready to wax the labia! That's what comes next: the labia! Let me get a look at the labia."
I've gone to the same OB/GYN for 15 years. Know what word he's never once said to me? It rhymes with “Ripper is a fucking psycho-ia."
"But I don't want my labia waxed," I told her, while struggling to get up with my waxy, butterflied legs. "That's not what I asked for."
“But we've got to wax your labia! WE'VE GOT TO WAX YOUR LABIA."
“Do you get paid by the hair or something? Trust me, nobody will see my labia in my tankini!"
Ripper and I had come to a stand-off. The only sound in the room was the murmur of bubbling wax and the pan flute music she was playing on her iPhone. But then Ripper finally broke the stalemate and said the words that made my already tense back and leg muscles seize up while I slipped off the table to grab my pants. The words that rendered me unable to sleep comfortably for the next five days. “Grab your knees and get into the cannonball position."
Nobody feels sorry for you when you hurt yourself getting a bikini wax.
(images via Thinkstock)