And We Danced and We Cried and We Laughed and Had a Really, Really, Really Good Time

My father-in-law was diagnosed with Stage 4 lymphoma in September. Just before he started Chemo treatments, my husband offered to shave his head to look like his dad, but only if his co-workers could raise $1500 for the oncology department of the local hospital.  

I offered to promote it on my Facebook page (because I have amazing friends that are always looking for a reason to show their awesomeness)  and the promotion quickly went from a simple Husband-head-shave to include me in the balding process-- only not my head. This past weekend, my husband did his part of the bargain, as did I. What did I have to do? Oh, I had to have hair loss, too; a Brazilian was the order of the day.

I feel like Tom Selleck after he shaved his moustache: the smile is the same but there's no barrier between it and the outside world.

I arrived at my 5pm Brazilian Day (B-Day) appointment a half-hour early; I was too nervous to continue driving up and down the street for another 30 minutes trying to get up the courage, so I parked and called my Dad.  Not that he knew what was about to happen, but, whenever I have a life changing event due to occur, I call my Dad and pick a random topic to dissect quickly and absolutely.

It's handy because we can get into neat, compact mini-arguments that come out of nowhere, lead to nowhere, and last roughly 10 minutes. Everyone should have someone with whom they can argue philosophy instead of hyper-focusing on events looming on the horizon. Especially if that person will argue but not fight-- an argument is just opposing views, not screaming, yelling, name-calling. (it can be, but that's not exclusively what argument means, according to my Phil 101 teacher from back in the day).

We argued, if you care, about the state of Frankenfish (some crazy mutant Salmon that grows non-stop and will eat everything and turn into whales or something) and how we can't just genetically modify food and not expect it to catch up with us and autism and ADD and allergies and The Future. I'm pretty sure we even got talking about Cat Fish and their whiskers, although I'm not certain because I was trying really hard not to think about my impending de-whiskering.

Trying not to sweat in soon-to-be-public body spaces, I hung up with my father and walked inside the spa.
The receptionist let Waxy Louise know I had arrived while I sat down. I made sure to remember the comfortable feeling of sitting down, because I was sure it would be the last time I did so for the next 48 hours.

Waxy Louise collected me and we chit chatted while I stood there wondering whether I should be taking my pants off or not. I, like a virgin on her wedding night, was nervously shifting my weight from foot to foot while she, the more experienced of the two, tried to assure me that this is totally normal and everyone feels this way.

"Wow, this is what Fantine, from Les Misérables, must've felt like when she turned her first trick."

In retrospect, that was probably NOT the best first-thing to say to a professional waxer, but things barf out of my mouth when I'm nervous.

To take my mind off my nerves, I started to do some stretches. I pulled my left leg up to my chest and pulled.  I did some lunges (which are difficult to do in jeans) and pulled my calf up to my butt and held it. I wasn't gonna pull a muscle in the middle of Waxy Louise pulling off other stuff.

What a hairless vagina might look like, if it
were floating in a pool of  wood shavings. 

I'd heard, for example, that I might have to lay on my back with my legs above my head, to get a Brazilian. I'd also heard I might have to be on all fours, like a dog. I'd heard there might be some straddling, some plucking of missed bits, and other... creative unpleasantness.

Despite all that, the thing I was most looking forward to, though, was being a part of some hairless underworld.

After I announced to my Facebook world that I would be taking the plunge and getting a Brazilian if that same Facebook world would raise $2000 for the oncology department of our local hospital, the messages started rolling in: I had no idea how many of my friends are walking around bald as an eagle. No, bald as a baby parrot... but cuter. Well, I assume they're cuter than a baby parrot: baby parrots are damn ugly, and no one sent pictures.

However, what I was NOT expecting was for the whole process to be enjoyable. Waxy Louise was, like, Normal. It was more like she was waxing my eyebrows than my Junk. We chatted about how exactly I ended up in her chair, talked about her 25th wedding anniversary and my 10th (coming up this year! Say what?!?) and all sorts of completely normal conversation while she removed every trace of puberty from my lower half. Well, from my Censor Box anyway.

When I went to leave we hugged (like everyone who has just waged war on something and defeated it does) and she said I could see her in 4 weeks.

"When a waxer says "4 Weeks" that is code.
When you spell "Vagina" on this box, you open it to
find the original wax strips used by Mary Magdalene.
Her shop was beneath the glass pyramid at The Louvre."

4 weeks? I'm gonna be free of all maintenance for 4 weeks? That's awesome! And then, like the flashback in your favourite movie, I realized all the women I'd ever seen leaving with the waxer saying "See you in 4 weeks!" It's the CODE!

The next day, Husband and I were out getting groceries and ran into a couple that we know.

Lady: I see you're walkin' funny. (shouted from two fruit stands over)
Me: Huh? (shouted back from two aisles of a very full grocery store over)
Lady: (glancing at my crotch and nodding suggestively)
Me: HA! Yes. I, uh, just got finished horseback riding. From Florida.  (now everyone is looking up to see if we're talking about what it sounds like we're talking about)
(we giggle while our husbands nervously shift their weight from foot to foot)

I forget that what women tell each other is waaaaaaay more than men cover.

And then I realized that Husband might not WANT the world to know all about my ... donation in the name of science. And then I realized that maybe other husbands might not want to know about my donation in the name of science, either. And then I remembered that not only are there people my age on my Facebook page, but there are ex-students of mine. Many ex-students. Of both genders.

Dear GOD.

And then, I got a text from a friend of mine saying, "Hey, I didn't get a chance to donate-- I'll cover your next appointment."
To which I replied, "How do you know I'll be going back?"

And then the baby parrot came up again. She (and a few others) suggested that the regrowth would be so itchy that I will be begging for another one. That I'd ride my bike all the way to London, in fact, just to not have those feathers coming through.  Now, I understand the many reasons exotic pets are banned in Canada.

Exotic pets, exotic dancers and exotic grooming are more than just a one-time-deal. You can't just keep a tiger for a day. You can't invite a stripper home and expect life to return to normal when the sun rises, and you certainly can't think that ripping ones pubic hair out by the roots could end in any other way than me riding my bike for 3 hours in the middle of winter to give cooling comfort to the hair pushing its way through my skin.

If you need me come Valentine's Day, I'll be tuning up the ol'Schwinn for the ride of a lifetime.
Or I'll be having an argument with my father about Plato's cave and whether or not reality is True or a Dream before meeting up with Waxy Louise for a second time.

Either way, my father-in-law is now in remission.
Score one for the crazies.