The Joys of Brazil

I used to love the idea of Brazil. To me, it conjured up images of gorgeous, scantily clad, people on pristine beaches with nary a care in the world. Brazil oozed uninhibited, sexy, sex, sex and I often dreamed about heading down there to experience Mardi Gras for myself.

Then, I gave birth and two things happened to me.

First, I learned that my pain tolerance, while still greater than any man's, was nevertheless, on the low side. I opted for the epideural. Childbirth without the use of modern pharmaceuticals is just crazy talk. Amen.

And second, almost overnight, I became more politically correct in the way I behaved. Metaphorically, I washed my mouth out with soap, shrugged on my idea of motherhood and generally morphed into an uptight, postpartum nightmare.

My kids grew, I divorced their father and finally met the man I was always destined to marry. Our romance ignighted all of those long forgotten stirrings south of the border and one day, I found myself necessarily contemplating the current landscape in personal grooming. Things had certainly changed in the decade that I had been married. Brazilian women and porn stars weren't the only ones removing it all.

I thought about it. And then I thought about how a single, stray pubic hair caught in the elastic of my panties could bring tears to my eyes. Since morphine is not readily available for waxes, I tucked the idea of a Brazilian far, far, away into the part of my brain where things I'm scared of reside and bought a better razor instead.

But I was always curious.

I spoke to my sister who told me that she tried it and didn't get very far because of the BLEEDING. (Oh my god!)

I talked with girlfriends who said it was unpleasant but SO worth it. (Define "unpleasant".)

I asked the sweet girl who does my hair and who waxes my face her opinion and she told me that having my upper lip waxed was more painful than having the hoo hoo done. (Really? REALLY? I so wanted to believe her.)

And then I chatted with my sister in law in New Zealand who practically rhapsodized about the girl who waxes her except Leisa is not a Brazilian kind of girl. She assured me that a simple bikini wax was painless. Yes, sure BUT WHAT ABOUT THE LABIA? She had no information for me on that one except to reiterate that her girl with her magic pink wax was a gift from God and did I want her to make an appointment for me?

Yes, please.

For the next three months, I fretted about that decision. Daily. I don't like pain and every time that I had my upper lip done, which really stings, I couldn't help but think that only someone with serious mental issues would subject her delicate bits to the same treatment.

December 23rd, we flew from Auckland to Queenstown where Leisa picked me up. We left the rest of our group to fend for themselves and took off to keep my beauty appointment. The first thing she told me to do was to get some Motrin into my body. "Why don't we just stop somewhere and get drunk?" I suggested. "No time," she replied and with that, we pulled up to the salon. It is not an exaggeration to tell you that I was terrified.

If you are planning to have your hoo hoo waxed, let me help you manage those expectations.

1. It hurts. Awful. I was lied to told that there were only a couple of bits that would hurt and she would warn me ahead of time to help me manage. She cautioned me the first time and oh sweet baby Jesus it hurt. It actually took my breath away. I grabbed her arm and asked her to give me a minute to recover before she ripped away the next piece. I estimate that there were a total of about six strips that made me see stars and you might be shaking your head thinking, "well, that's not too bad," but let me tell you, on a scale of 1 to 10 with ten being the worst, it was a 9. She said, "I thought you had children," to which I replied, "Did I mention I had an EPIDEURAL?" (Beware ladies. When someone compares the pain of something to childbirth, you know that Motrin just isn't going freaking cut it.)

2. Included in the Brazilian experience is the delightful job of getting one's posterior treated, as well. Although it's not a pleasant thought, there's hair there too. That part was painless, easy peasy, and contrary to some of the information out there, one does not have to be on all fours to get that area handled.

3. In addition to not shooting Botox into your forehead, it is inadvisable to wax your girlie bits when premenstrual. Apparently, during this special time of the month, a woman's sensitivity to pain is heightened. UNDERSTATEMENT.

After it was all said and done, I was pleased with the results and reassurred that the first time is the worst. Apparently, the process gets successively easier with each visit. Whatever.

The next time, (I know, how could I be contemplating a next time, right?) if I am ever insane enough to travel to Brazil again, I am either going to be heavily medicated or drunk. I am not kidding.

Not even one tiny, hairless bit.