I don’t think I ever have or ever will understand the appeal of having a hairless vagina on a post pubescent female who one the one hand desires to look like a women and have large breasts and a big butt, but on the other hand wants her unmentionable area to look like that of a seven year old girl. Don’t get me wrong– it’s not that I have anything against the whole concept of being hairless or not- it’s just that I don’t really get it.

                When I was younger and shaving was still a novel pastime, I am pretty sure I took much better care of my body hair situation than I do now. Now at days I wait weeks, even months before I summon up enough energy to put a razor to what has indeed turned into something similar to that of a grizzly bear’s leg. I stuck only to shaving and I still have a scar on my leg from one of my first times. With the exception of the only time I attempted to use NAIR. I was only to be suffocated by the smell and not follow the directions exactly, leaving a very traumatized and confused 15 year old. Now, as a teenager who started getting hair on her armpits in the fourth grade, I knew I had to take care of business in order to fit in. This meant wearing makeup (my first few years included my Mimi from the Drew Carey show phase), dating boys, and looking all the ‘right’ ways. But how was I supposed to know what to do? I grew up with two older brothers and two foreign parents completely unaware of the importance of beauty and poise in an American girls early teenage years. This of course led to the shaving of the eyebrows which in turn led to no eyebrows and my dad throwing away all the razors in the house, the tanning lotion incident where I looked like an oompa loompa for 2 weeks, the sun in incident which bleached my hair white and when my dad asked me about it I said: “no dad, its natural,” the many hair dye incidents ranging from fire engine red to black to scarecrow, and the list goes on. But for now, I will elate you with the pubic hair stories.

                I was fifteen at the time when my friend persuaded me that shaving was a dangerous and deadly issue in regards to the vagina area. I was terrified. Had I just been lucky that my parts were still intact? Would the next experience prove to be vagina fatal and leave me with a body part that would be the next revelation in the scientific community? This was a matter of life or death. I simply HAD to get waxed.

                I went with my friend to her usual waxing salon. It was a small sanitary place which I imagined to be similar to a ward unit in a mental hospital. My friend went into a room, took her clothes off, lied down on the table, and spread her legs like a dog basking in the hot summer sun.  It seemed like a piece of cake. The ladies who preformed the task seemed to know what they were doing and my friend Jane* was completely fine and relaxed. Soon enough, it was over.  And, then it was my turn. As I took off my pants and  lied down on the table requirements my heart began beating quickly. Was I ready for this? Did I really want these nameless women to put hot wax on the hair in the areas surrounding my vagina and quickly rip it off? Yes… I was sure I did. I won’t lie and say it was as appealing as getting sushi, but there was some level of curiousity. I began to get nervous and told them I was having doubts. My friend quickly shushed me and told me I will be fine. “Just breathe,” she said.”It doesn’t hurt and it will look so good in the end!” The workers reaffirmed that they had done this hundreds of times and this was a quick and painless process. So they put the first layer of wax down… put the cloth strip… and pulled.

Now firstly, I want to explain something about relativity. Merriam- Webster defines relativity as” the state of being dependent for existence on or determined in nature, value, or quality by relation to something else.” Understandable, but I want to put emphasis on the key words: by relation. Now I want to go back to the affirmations that this was to be a quick and painless process. YES. It was to be painless… IN RELATION to having every limb pulled off your body by razor sharp teeth or YES, it was to be painless in relation to having your brain paper cut in the same spot over and over again. But painless in relation to enjoying my Saturday afternoons reading and drinking tea like I had for the previous months? I think not.

                Needless to say, when I left the waxing salon I was not only bleeding, but every employee laughed at me and asked me if I was still alive. They had heard my screams from the other side of the building, and chose to continue sitting passively albeit possible a child was getting abducted and dissected by aliens in the other room.

                It was evident that I would never wax again. Until I met Michelle,  a terrific friend whose judgment I trusted almost more than my own. She told me how she had been getting waxed for years and when I shared my story, she sat there horrified, but listened. She told me that she would not pressure me but that I should maybe try one more time since it sounded like the first place I went to was the equivalent of living in Soviet Russia.  I agreed. And so months prolonged and I avoided going to the salon until one day I decided I must conquer my fears or die trying.

Michelle and I went to the waxing salon where they served be the best tea I had ever had in my life. It was a homemade ginger and honey recipe. I knew right there and then they were winners. They were extremely kind, understanding, and knowledgeable. They had many pamphlets to read that were produced by the company and they gave advice as well as what to do while the process was happening. This was it. I was going to once again make a choice to have hot wax smothered close to my genitals for beautification purposes. Almost 9 years after the first incident, I was ready to get back on the horse…. And so I went In.

                The process went a lot more smoothly and comfortable than what I expected. There was soothing music, a perfect temperature, and a squeezable toy cow  I held while I got my women-ness ripped out of me. The lady could not perform a Brazilian because apparently my skin was much too sensitive. So sensitive, in fact, that they had to use pregnant women wax on me with herbs and my skin still became very agitated. So I settled with a bikini with just a little bit of, as the French say, la raie des fesses (my butt crack for all you non French speakers).When the process was complete I looked down at my new piece of art and smiled. It looked really great! I could finally understand why women did this. I mean, the process was still extremely painful, but this time I was able to take a codeine or two before the ripping began, so I was not as aware to the rippage. The smooth skin lasted for several weeks and even remained soft until then. I was impressed. 

I have not entered a waxing salon since March, although I have thought about it and mentioned it in passing several times to my friends.  I rediscovered NAIR, which made life much easier when I felt like living up my childhood again, but that’s only when the moon turns very, very blue. Until then, I’m fine with what I have. I realized that if I ever wanted to feel young I would finger paint or eat ice cream from the tub.  I am happy with my body being natural and I refuse to give in to the idea that bareness means sexiness. In the end, it’s a body choice. Just like how I choose not to eat meat or I choose to listen in on my neighbors having sex. But, I don’t need to get a Brazilian when I already have the whole Amazon.

Gal Perelman