The idea is something out of a science fiction novel. It’s a dream. A pipedream . A concept so fanciful as to border on fantasy. And yet, there I was, IN REAL LIFE, spread-eagle on the table, giggling as a complete stranger aimed a laser at my lady parts and singed off all the hair….
It’s no secret that I’m Italian, and, if you’ve spent any time in proximity to me while in direct sunlight before I’ve had a chance to landscape, you’ll have noticed that I sport a full beard. I’m not kidding. It’s a well-established joke that I grow more facial hair than the Old Man. And this doesn’t even touch upon the Winged Pigweed that I’d sport below the belt if it weren’t for affordable, at-home wax kits. My life has been littered with a string of hair removal flukes and faux pas. The ongoing saga of the Vajina Jihad, the Twat Fatwa, is a never-ending source of entertainment for all those around me.
So, the idea of a life without monthly waxes? Without ingrown hairs or patches of abraised road-rash where I’ve accidentally removed swathes of skin as well as the fine fuzz? Heaven, I tell you. A little piece of heaven as smooth as a baby’s bottom.
For months, I’d been trolling Groupon and Living Social. Searching. Pining. Yearning for a deal on laser hair removal. I gazed at the joyfully hair-free visages of girlfriends who’d spent the fortune on the process, wishing to be less of a penny-pincher. Why did it have to be so damned expensive?
And then the little alert came through:
60% Off Laser Hair Removal! One Payment! As Many Visits As It Takes! Never Wax Or Shave Again!!!
It was 3am when the email came in. I called anyway. Just in case. They called me back the next day, and this afternoon, I was off for my consultation. After asking the necessary questions about any fine print, I nodded my head before they could change their minds and paid for a full-face and Brazilian.
When I found out that the aesthetician had time right then for my first treatment, I couldn’t get my pants off fast enough. (If only the boys I turned down in college knew how easy it could have been for them.) I stripped down to my shirt and the supplied wrap and jumped on the table, ready to begin my new life as a bikini model. I shrugged off her warnings about the discomfort, pooh-poohed her stories about other clients calling her unmentionable names and fleeing the office halfway through one treatment. I have tattoos and a pierced tongue. I’ve fractured my leg and broken my own nose. I laugh in the face of pain.
And then that bitch turned on the laser.
I won’t say it was the worst pain ever, because it wasn’t. but it was a searing and uncomfortable series of red-hot-poker snaps that, when applied to one’s asshole, cause any number of involuntary muscle contractions. I was, for sure, winking at her, and not with my eyes.
Through the whole ordeal (which I will gladly repeat again in one month, and again one month after that for as many times as it takes), I giggled uncontrollably. Twittered like middle school girl who can’t stop thinking about the cute boy in the back of class who reads Rilke and listens to the New York Dolls. It was a mix of glee and pain and unchecked excitement at the prospect of never having to rip the hair from my tender bits or search my chin for errant whiskers again.
Will you miss my misadventures when I become follicle impaired? Certainly. Do I care? Not a whit. So long, locks, and Godspeed.