Posted Monday, January 19th, 2004
The Bald and the Beautiful: How a Brazilian changed my life (and can change yours too!)
Gwyneth does it. Britney does it. Carrie and all her friends even do it on Sex and the City. I’m not talking about taking wedding vows here-- these ever-stylish ladies treat themselves to Brazilian bikini waxes. Quickie weddings were so last week. The Brazilian is a thorough waxing style, in which the hair is removed from the entire pubic area, including the back of the bottom (translation: butt crack). The procedure has garnered admiration form stars like Sarah Jessica and Li’l Kim and ordinary girls like, well, me.
My virgin wax experience resembled an episode of Jerry Springer more than an article from InStyle. My labia were waxed by a slutty home wrecker who made inappropriate sexual comments about my boyfriend while she ripped the hair from my flesh. But I survived, and now I am such a brazilian enthusiast that I am risking utter humiliation if my parents read this, in order to enlighten all of you about this phenomenon. Yes it is painful, but to borrow from an old euphemism, pain is pleasure, girls. Pain is pleasure…
The Brazilian bikini wax first appeared in the United States in 1987, when seven Brazilian sisters opened the J Sisters Salon in New York City. In their native Brazil, the waxing style was conceived as a practical solution for thong bikinis. After winning over the porn industry, the Brazilian became the must-have accessory of celebrities and trend-setters. Gaining momentum with the thong movement, the procedure has become routine in big and small salons in New York, L.A., and scores of cities in-between (including your own!).
And just as the thong has become the definition of sexy underwear, the Brazilian has become the definition of a sexy vagina. Yes, the hottest look in vaginas is the equivalent of the Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen clothing line. But the Brazilian is not always completely bare, Lolita-style. Sometimes a small patch of hair is left just above the labia, in the form of a triangle, rectangular “landing strip,” or another personalized motif (initials, heart, dyed blue Tiffany’s “box”).
Although intrigued, I, like most of my friends, just wanted to talk about the Brazilian, not actually get one. When I was sixteen, I shaved off all of my pubic hair and was so appalled at the puffy monster underneath that I vowed never to look at it again. Besides, I convinced myself, I was morally opposed to this perverse attraction to a prepubescent vagina.
My boyfriend, however, was not morally opposed. And for my 22nd birthday, he surprised me with a Brazilian bikini wax. Yes, as a gift. I showed up at the salon expecting a facial or a manicure and I got the hair ripped out of my vagina.
When getting a Brazilian, it’s important to go to a professional, especially one that has been recommended. If you can’t find an aesthetician (a.k.a. waxer) through the grapevine, then at least go to a fancy salon, or you risk the esthetician breaking all the hairs at the surface instead of ripping them out at the root. All that pain, and within one day, little stray hairs will poke out at random all over your vagina.
That being said, unfortunately, getting a Brazilian is like getting a haircut—something can go wrong even when you go to a good person who you trust. It so happens that my boyfriend got his hair cut at a fancy salon, and he was chummy with the aesthetician there, so he booked my appointment with her. This toothy-faced woman reminded me of a spokesmodel for a hot tub manufacturer. She would sit in the empty barber’s chair next to his and talk to him during his haircut. About sex. She told him these outrageous sex stories which he later told me, partly incredulous, partly enthralled.
I hated her already.
But I’m not a quitter, so I found myself sitting on paper-covered table, in the middle of a purple room that smelled like a nauseous combination of essential oils. I was naked from the waist down and trying desperately to cover my overgrown pubic hair. Then Toothy Face herself opened the door and flashed her spokesmodel smile. She’d been expecting me.
She took out a pair of scissors and trimmed my pubic hair. This total stranger was touching my vagina with her cold, cold hands. She asked about my boyfriend while she prepared the wax, was he well? Was he happy? Was he looking good?
Yes, yes, yes, I said while T.F. applied the hot wax to my inner thigh. She used a cloth strip to rip the wax (and the hair) in one swift motion, in mid-sentence, “—must be so hairy down there, if his arms tell you anything!”
“Who?” I managed as I struggled to catch my breath. My skin smarted for a moment, then T.F. slathered a cool green gel on the fresh skin. The pain subsided, and I realized she was talking about my boyfriend, and his pubic hair.
So she continued into my more intimate areas, the outer flesh of my labia, “It must be like a forest down there, how can you ever find anything?” Then the inner flesh, “My man is hairy, too, so I already know what that’s like!” Then I was crouched on all fours while she waxed my butt crack, “You should send him in here and let me clean him up for you!”
My skin pulsed in time with my beating heart. Had it not been for my paralyzing passivity, I would have dumped the tub of hot wax in her hair. But then it was over. T.F. told me to open my eyes. She waved her arms in the direction of my vagina, showcasing her work. Before I could think of something nasty to say, she winked and disappeared out the door.
T.F. was off the hook, but my boyfriend was undergoing all sorts of torture in my imagination—Chinese water torture, the Rack, sodomy…But first, I looked cautiously down at her work. My vagina was puffy and red, swollen and misshapen like a newborn baby. “Sexy” was the exact opposite of this flushed mass of skin. If this was the price of wearing thongs, I would stick with bikini briefs.
The pain subsided rather quickly after I left the salon. And just as newborns look beautiful after they’ve eaten, bathed, and calmed down, I looked and felt better by dinnertime. My boyfriend came over with a satisfied smile, which I erased by wailing that he didn’t love me, and had hired his toothy-faced mistress to torture me. He apologized and assuaged my doubts with a small assortment of appropriate, thoughtful birthday gifts. And we made up, and, well, you know how that goes…
There are many theories circulating as to the miracle of the Brazilian. Some claim it’s a sensible accompaniment to the thong. Some say the guys dig it. Some say it’s kinky and experimental, like piercings.
All true. But I have yet to hear someone speak the truth about this torturous beauty procedure. So I step onto my soapbox:
The sex is amazing. More specifically, the oral sex is amazing. Since my sisters may be reading this, I’ll offer a metaphor:
Getting oral sex after a Brazilian bikini wax is: switching to baths after taking showers your whole adult life. Being a shower girl suits you. The water pressure is adequate. By shifting and contorting your body, you can get the water to hit you in all the right spots eventually.
But then one night you slide into a tub full of soft, warm water, and your whole body sinks under the surface and you feel your bones and muscles melt into pulp. The water envelopes you, hitting all the right spots simultaneously. Your skin feels velvety-smooth and wet. You feel hot and relaxed and, well, orgasmic.
My name is not Danielle Steele, so I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. After my first wax, I wanted a soft, fleshy vagina all the time. But while the hair grows back, it’s itchy, and scratching your crotch is not yet socially acceptable. I recommend treating yourself once in awhile, and letting the hair grow back fully before waxing again. Waiting prevents those unsightly ingrown hairs—the pimples of your lower half.
If I can survive a wax from Toothy Face, you can survive a wax from a perfectly anonymous stranger. You may feel uncomfortable at first, but like changing in the communal locker room, it gets easier and less embarrassing every time.
Stepping down from my soapbox, I am sending you off to discover this secret of the stars for yourself. Next time you want to try the Next Big Thing, skip the “I do” and go for the “iiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeooooooowwwwoohhhhhoooohhhohohohohoOOHHHH!!” instead.
Comments [post a comment]
Posted by Erin Hinken on Tuesday, January 20th, 2004 at 9:31 PM
That was great!
Posted by Christine Sterling on Thursday, January 22nd, 2004 at 3:35 PM
Brilliant exposé Mary Bradshaw...I mean Bauers...simply brilliant.
Posted by nina gerzon on Friday, February 13th, 2004 at 10:12 AM
That was awesome! Thanks for sharing all that and risking humillation.
Posted by In Transit [ firstname.lastname@example.org
] on Monday, April 3rd, 2006 at 10:44 PM
Young lady, I can not comment on the quasi pleasures that you may endure, however as a male, I have to say that a Brasil-Cut really leaves nothing to the imagination... let alone tooth floss.
The first time I viewed such a cut, was on the beach of Ilha Bella in Brasil, where these little girls pranced around in mono-kinis made of quasi butchers string a la crochet... serving what were rotund men that could have been their grand-fathers...
Each to their own... but let there be i.e.MSP
Am off to the middle-east where the PYTs are quite covered... until one is invited to their homes, and they become be-jeweled and dressed to the nines with the latest of Paris & Milano's fashions.