This originally appeared on thehairpin.com, April 11th, 2012, and can be found here:
http://thehairpin.com/search?q=employee+discount
It's a general interest site featuring some terrific lady writers, and I sort of wish we all lived in the same apartment building or whatever so we could all hate-watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta, loudly sing and dance to the newest Kelly Clarkson, and give each other the best, direct, and sincerely thoughtful advice on juiceboxes, non-juiceboxes, life, clean stuff, and everything in between.
And to quote my Dad, "Natalie, I'm not sure at what point you became comfortable talking about your vagina on the internet, but well done nonetheless."
Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get. Except if the box is clearly labelled. Or if your box is not clearly labelled, there's probably a little pamphlet explaining what kind of chocolate said box contains. So really, life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get if you can't read, or are blind and there is no Braille on the box. In which case, who is giving you this box of unmarked chocolates? They obviously don't know you very well, otherwise they would have gotten the dark chocolate truffles. Some stranger is giving you candy. I think we all know what the saying about that one is. But hey, candy is candy, so I'm not going to judge you. You know what I am going to judge you for, though? Trying to tell me that getting a Brazilian "isn't that bad" and that "you get used to it after a while."
I work in a spa. It's a full-service spa, so we do anything from massages to facials to waxing. All kinds of waxing. (We used to have one boy who worked among all us ladies, and I always thought one of his most charming qualities was his ability to, in complete seriousness and with 100% detailed accuracy, explain the different types of vagina waxings to inquiring ladies.) One of the perks of working in the spa is that we get stuff terrifically cheap. I like money, and I like when there is more of it in my bank account. So it just seemed to make sense that when I decided that I was going to dive head first into this Brazilian business that I would do so at work. You might think differently, but the idea of voluntarily paying $60+ to have someone torture me sounded ridiculous.
The backstory to this is that I had started seeing this guy, and I liked him, and much to my chagrin his grooming preferences were right down to the wood. For a while I had really hoped that all men shared Hank Moody's point of view on that subject, but this time I was out of luck.
You guys, I know. I know! You're likely screaming at me "Girl, tell me you didn't torture your ladies' parts just because some juicebox made you feel like that's the only way he'd be taking a ride downtown to the pink taco stand? When will the jerkcircus end!?!”
Yeah, I totally did it for that reason. It was in those first few months when you meet someone who seems to have a lot in common with you, and they make you laugh, and they seem suspiciously human, and you think you might actually really like this person ... and then a few months after, you learn that they actually have the emotional intelligence of a six-year-old, can't handle stress, and when they do get stressed they turn into a selfish, bratty little kid that hurls mean comments at you for asking if they want to come watch The Voice in a little bit and that it's your fault for making them so upset. Hahahahahaha! What?
Okay, back to our vagine waxing story. So I decided to just book myself in for the Brazilian a few days out. Because I was in the books at work, my coworkers had seen the appointment scheduled and were strangely excited for me. I loved that my best friend was fantastically hyped for me, because to be honest, I was not at all. She wanted me to tell her all about it. She is maybe one of the nicest people you will ever meet, and wonderful in that way where no matter what's going on she is ridiculously supportive and excited for you. Just so that you know what I'm talking about, our staff washrooms at work are also where our change rooms are. It's a tiny shoebox of a room, and with people always on call there is little to no privacy. For this reason I'm usually an at-home pooper type of person, but one time my colon was all like "I quit this bitch," and I had no choice. I walk into the change room and there is my friend. There really was no time for subtleties, so I had to be blunt, "Angie, I'm just going to be direct. You probably don't want to be in here in the next few minutes." Her response? "Oh, that's no problem! I'm just really glad to hear that you're staying regular!" You see? Wonderful.
Cut to B-Day. I'm not going to lie, it's a little weird to be in a room where your coworker is asking you to hold your labia a certain way, but whatever. That very quickly became the last thing I was worried about. I've had regular bikini waxes before, and they're a whole different ballgame. They're like a nap on a soft, white, fluffy cloud that also gently massages you and soothingly sings you Enya songs, compared to Brazilians. Can we talk about the pain? THE PAIN! Holy fuck. Seriously, anyone who tries to tell you that the pain isn't that bad can go fist themselves. I consider myself to have a fairly good pain threshold, but I felt like I'd just been in a horrific car accident — my nerves were shot, all my patience was gone, and I was in shock. The worst part was it didn't stop hurting! It was like hundreds of tiny, very aggressive, and horribly angry piranhas were continuing to dig their razor sharp teeth in to my whole general groin region. FOR HOURS!! I was sore for days. That's not an exaggeration. I couldn't sit.
Now, because I had this done at work, everyone and their mother knew about it and wanted to know how it went (because I think when you wax lady parts everyday, and some of them happen to belong to your coworkers, secrets and privacy pretty much go out the window). A few days later we had a little work party at a nearby restaurant. You should know that it wasn't as if we were all standing around having some beers with music playing in the background. Nope. This was a sit-down dinner, everyone from work gathered around a table with their husbands and partners. The topic somehow turned to waxing, and then my boss, our spa director, looked at me and this is pretty much how it went:
Boss Lady: Oh! Natalie, you had a Brazilian the other day, how did that go?
Me: I'm not going to lie, it was pretty traumatic. It's a little uncomfortable to sit right now. I was not prepared for that.
Other Boss Lady: Oh right, that was your first one!
Boss Lady: Ever?
Me: Ever.
Other Boss Lady: Good for you Natalie! Nice job! Let's give Natalie a round of applause, that's a big deal!
Boss Lady: Yeeeah buddy!!
And then the whole table gave me a big round of hearty applause and loud cheers.
And now here we are. The best/last time I had a Brazilian. Now where is my goddamn chocolate?
Natalie Bell is completely comfortable taking candy from strangers. So long as it is not the cheap kind. Rude.
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