There has been quite a few questions about Brazilians lately. So I wrote about my experince with this horrific rite of passage. Enjoy. 8-) 

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It has been a long and hard winter. But, you can smell spring in today's sunshine.

And with each spring comes..... certain responsibilities.

Because, and I don't know how to say it other than this: <a href="https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.glow.android.eve">Eve</a>'s Garden has overgrown with neglect.

You know it's true. But, probably, like me, you have been avoiding the inevitable clean-up for as long as you can. Why? Do you really need to ask that? Okay, I'll tell you why...

Because someone thought it was a good idea to heat wax until it is boiling hot, spread it near the most vulnerable parts of our body and pull away all the hair there by its clingy roots. Huge strips at a time. (Seriously, who came up with this idea? How sadistic do you have to be for this to occur to you?)

Alas, I'm of Mediterranean decent. There is no avoiding the inevitable.

And I know how this goes:

I will reluctantly make my appointment. And show up at my designated time. Get called into a sterile room.

Once there, I will put on the tissue-thin underwear provided and awkwardly climb on to a padded table covered with white paper, not unlike a lamb willingly submitting itself to slaughter.

My attendant will take one look and inevitably squawk something that sounds like: "Magge hardegh wonghuy!!!" in whatever her native tongue is.

I cannot tell for sure - but I think it translates to "Cancel my one o'clock!!!"

And then we will get down to business.

Waxing is like a combination of your most terrifying gynecological visit and Cirque du Soleil.

This woman, who up until a minute ago was a complete stranger, is currently glaring with determination at all those parts of me that my mommy told me to keep private.

But alas in this room she is the puppet master, and I am her puppet. She contorts my body into positions that I did not think possible, all the while screaming directives like "Hold here! Tight! Now grab this! Pull it back! Spread here! Okay, good. One more. One more!"

The only other sounds in the room are my pathetic whimpers, and that particularly memorable swoosh of wax being ripped off of human flesh.

By the end of the session, we are both covered with a thin layer of sweat, and yet strangely bonded. Like we survived a particularly haunting mountain climb together...

I lie back and she douses me with a soothing oil and baby powder. For the first time a hint of gentleness enters her voice:

"Next time, maybe you wait not so long. Come back three weeks. It hurt not so much. You understand? Okay?"

I nod my head, incapable of speech for the time being.

I get dressed and leave the room with a curious sensation that a monetary tip is not enough. Maybe I should take her out to dinner. Or rename my first born after her.

Thinking that she would find either of those gestures creepy, I instead say a hearty "Thank you." And pay up, including an egregious tip. (Tell me one service provider who deserves it more than these women!)

Everything tingles as I walk. And not in a good way.

The last thing I hear as I head out is her scream...."Three weeks! Three WEEKS!"

Three weeks.

Are you kidding me?

Anyone else think that if men had to do this - it would be an insurance-covered outpatient procedure including local anesthesia? You bet it would.

Three weeks. Eff my life.

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