Recently I've been coping with the aftermath of a breakup—not a separation from my significant other, mind you, but from my waxist. Our split was not for lack of compatibility. She works at an athletic club where my husband and I discontinued our membership for budgetary concerns. I knew I would miss my go-to gal, but I frankly I didn't realize quite how much. And I suspect my husband, ahem, misses her too.
Every woman who's found an esthetician she loves will concur that the right chemistry makes the whole waxing shebang a more pleasant experience. The desired amount of conversation is key. And technique and attention to detail can determine the difference between an easy breezy experience, and, well, the blazing fires of a million suns. I'm still cursing the gal who pulled the same strip three times in the same spot (!!!!) and left me looking like I'd run my crotch into a hot iron (TMI, sorry). Suffice to say, my long lost waxist was the complete package. Which is why, although we left the gym in December. It is nearly July and I'm still, well, adjusting. But since I plan to wear a bathing suit at least once this summer, it's time to get my fanny in gear.
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I'd been regularly visiting my dream waxist for three years, but to be perfectly honest, I came to the table later in life. While I never sun bathed looking exactly cave-woman-esque, anyone born before 1980 will tell you that hairstyles down there have changed somewhat over the last couple decades. And the reason, in my humble opinion, that bare or next-to-no hair has become status quo, is the mainstreaming of porn.
Written by Emily Southwood
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