Going Brazillian
“Some people say getting a Brazilian is more painful than giving birth,” said my torturer, I mean aesthetician, pulling my skin taut before tearing the first of entirely too many hot-wax-affixed cloth strips off my bikini zone. She let it rip before telling me, “They’re wrong.”
Ah yes, the Brazilian bikini wax. One for the “Crazy Things We Do in the Name of Beauty” file, and, in my editor’s opinion, anyway, one for the “Crazy Things Shannon Should Do in the Name of an Interesting Story” file. When the suggestion first arose regarding me writing about going Brazilian, I spent a considerable amount of time in deliberation. While one thing I’ve always had going for me is my willingness to try anything once, getting a Brazilian-and writing about it-falls into a category of its own. Pain (no small matter) aside, there’s also the minor consideration of publishing the fact of what I’ve done. Public humiliation has never served as an insurmountable deterrent for me, but while, like many writers, I often take comfort in the assumption that no one actually reads what I write, this time I couldn’t shake the feeling that once this issue of The Indy hit the stands, everyone would be staring at my crotch.
