I’ve often wondered how many precious minutes of my life have been lost while I was locked in the privacy of my bathroom, warming a small strip of Sally Hanson wax with my 1800 watt hairdryer, preparing to coif my seemingly uncoiffable bikini region. I usually wonder this as I’m chugging a vodka tonic, doing deep breathing exercises, and enjoying those last few peaceful seconds before I pull the strip off.
You probably know the rest of the story because it might have happened to you once or twice. The strip comes off with four measly hairs, the wax gets caught on some hair that you weren’t intending to remove and you’re left with a Sally Hanson wax-strip icicle dangling between your legs. After enduring the pain of yanking that off, you realize you’ve now got a couple of bald spots in places you don’t want to be bald.
Not long after one of these unpleasant experiences, I came across a story with a quote from San Francisco skincare and waxing goddess Marilyn Jaeger in reference to Brazilian bikini waxing: “If you want to sell the house, you’ve got to mow the lawn.”
Marilyn’s wisdom caused me to reflect on my own home and lawn, which was currently on the market but lacking any interested buyers. I decided that I needed to be ready to sell when a buyer came looking so I made an appointment at Marilyn Jaeger Skincare to take it all off, Brazilian style. Almost as soon as I made the appointment I wondered what the hell have I done?
For years, I’ve heard horror stories of the Brazilian bikini wax. Getting down on all fours, raising a leg like a dog peeing on a tree, spreading my butt cheeks to allow a complete stranger to apply hot wax in the most private crevices of my body...these didn’t seem like things I needed to rush out and experience (at least not in public). Friends of mine—amazing women with high pain tolerances who’d squeezed ten pound babies out of a ten centimeter hole—told me they’d cried from the pain of a Brazilian. What was I doing?
Summoning my courage, I decided that it was time to shed light on the truth behind the Brazilian. If I was scared to do it, there were bound to be other curious, scaredy cats out there too. I powered on.
The salon is located in a gorgeous Victorian home in San Francisco’s Presidio Heights area. I was comforted upon my arrival by a friendly staff, beautiful décor, the delicious smell of clove candles, and a nice stout glass of white sangria. As I gulped down the sangria, I worried they were trying to get me drunk to dull the pain. I drank faster.
I was led to my private room by a nice woman named Karla who informed me that she herself was Brazilian. I was strangely comforted by the fact that I’d be getting a Brazilian from a Brazilian. I felt as if she had some insider knowledge on how this thing needed to be done, as if they taught the art of waxing in Brazilian elementary schools.
Inside the room, Karla told me to undress from the waist down and pointed out the chair where I’d leave my clothes. I waited for her to leave—the way your massage therapist or aesthetician leaves so you can undress in private—but she kept talking, waiting. Shit, I thought, I have to do my ungraceful undressing in front of her. Considering she was about to see my most private areas, I’m not sure why this bothered me. I talked and laughed nervously as I bounced from one leg to the other to remove my boots and then my jeans.
As I lay down on the cushy table I laughed nervously (again) and told her it was my first time. Jesus, I thought, why am I acting like such a jackass? It’s just a few hairs. She patted me on the leg and told me not to worry; we’d be done before I knew it.
She then asked me whether I wanted to remove all my hair, or if I preferred a landing strip or a small triangle. I opted for the triangle. She did a little preliminary trimming and after that she asked me to bend my left leg to the side.
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