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Let Me Show You My Kitten

May 28, 2009

My bikini waxer is named Carlita. She is buxom yet lithe, has dimples when she smiles, and stalks around the salon in the most terrifying heels I’ve ever seen. She greets me with a kiss on the mouth then a firm and sincere embrace, and once, when the temperature dipped to -25, purred, “Ohhh, you are so, so cold! I think you need another,” before laying a second hug against my chest.

Her job is a strange one, and no amount of description or debate can make it seem average. For years, I sorted things out down below on my own, then one day I decided that, like tiling, roofing, electrical work and landscaping, some things are considered a trade for a reason. Why? Because a professional will always do a better job than an untrained individual. Carlita deals with ladies’ privates all day, primping and preening and grooming things into fancy shapes. Her co-workers scamper about in short-shorts, little skirts, jeans that fit like candy wrappers. It’s impossible not to imagine them booking one another for appointments, although aesthetician etiquette might send them to the beauty parlour down the block, like not seeking legal advice from a colleague or sleeping with a friend.

It’s been a year since I first became acquainted with Carlita and her kisses. At first, I found the whole thing bizarre; now, I think it’s kind of cute. Like visiting a girlish fantasy land where the air smells pretty, everyone is giggly, and transactions are conducted in whispers. Rest assured, there is nothing sexy about bikini waxing–this is one of those instances where less is more. As in, the less you know about the mechanics, the more you are free to enjoy the results. And yet, each appointment is injected with a healthy dose of dirty.

For instance, the time Carlita offered to show me her kitten, then reached into the waistband of her jeans, pulled out her iPhone and scrolled through photos of her new cat. Or, when she asked if I wanted her to “do around back, too?” When I replied, “No thanks, no one sees back there these days,” she slapped my thigh with a brisk crack and called me saucy.

What? She’s the one who asked if I wanted my bum waxed, so if anyone deserves a slap, it surely isn’t me!

6 Comments leave one →
  1. looka permalink
    May 29, 2009 1:51 am

    Oh aMANda, you’re killing me…

  2. Amanda permalink
    May 29, 2009 6:40 am

    Ha–Simon, this is the less classy side of me being revealed.

    : )

  3. looka permalink
    May 29, 2009 9:47 am

    Ah, don’t worry, heartstop because of laffs it was. And about less/class – you know me. Hahaahah

  4. Amanda permalink
    May 29, 2009 9:56 am

    It’s all about the fine line between classy and sassy, it’s true.

    : )

  5. Carrie permalink
    May 29, 2009 11:36 am

    There are no amount of kisses and sweet smells that could make waxing seem like less than a nightmare.

    However, you put forth a strong argument.

  6. Amanda permalink
    May 29, 2009 11:41 am

    There is an element to it of character-building to waxing. It brings to mind one of my dad’s favourite expressions for something that is only pure hell but which you really ought to endure for your own good: “It’ll put some hair on your chest”…which cracks me up with its contrary counterproductiveness.

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