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Diary

The Brazilian Saga: Epilogue

I went back today for my second-ever Brazilian.

It was soooooooooo much better this time.

About three days ago I started to feel it: the trepidation, the anticipation of great pain. I made a few passive-aggressive self-piteous comments to Sean. This morning, while sitting on the john reading Kentucky Alumni magazine, I suddenly had to fight down a particularly nasty onslaught of bile.

Obviously, I was nervous.

I headed up to downtown early and perused a “2006 Style Preview” hair magazine, sipping water and admiring the ambience of La Dolce Vita. If you have to have hair yanked out of your most private places, it’s nice to do it in a place that makes you feel about ten times cooler just because you’re there.

M came and fetched me and guided me out of the hip salon side, filled with dance beats and guys with thick black belts studded with metal and a row of black chairs facing mirrors and blue lights, into a room on the more soothing spa side, with its calming trance-y New Age music, its low lights, its extraordinarily comfortable ergonomic bed.

I settled in and hosed myself down with numbing spray. I don’t know if I put more or less on than last time, but I do know that I used quite a bit. Then I lay there waiting, letting the soothing music and comforting cradle of the bed help to calm me.

When M returned, she started on the opposite side from last time. I wondered if she kept notes and alternated on purpose, or if it was just a coincidence. I didn’t ask. My insides were churning at the thought of the first rip.

It came and went with hardly a jump.

I concentrated hard on our conversation. This time we talked about Christmas, and home-buying. She has a house up for sale off Fury’s Ferry, and wants to build in North Augusta. I tried to talk whenever she was about to tear the wax off, to distract myself, and for the most part it really worked.

But it was also just less painful in general than I remembered, and it seemed like it was over very quickly.

“That didn’t hurt near as much as last time,” I said in wonderment as M cleaned up.

“Oh, yeah. The first time is always the worst. Eventually your body builds up a tolerance, and the hair starts to grow in thinner too.”

“It seemed like it was already softer, just after the first time.”

“Yeah…you’re lucky, your hair is blond. It’s nice and thin. It takes people with dark hair years to get to the point you’re at.”

I left feeling very smug about being a blonde (hell, grow up hearing blonde jokes all your life and you take what you can get), but most importantly, I left with no residual pain. In fact, I felt absolutely fantastic, and still do.

It’s true what I told M about the hair feeling softer after the first time. The wax left my skin far less irritated than shaving. Given that and the fact that the pain has diminished so much, I see no reason not to keep the Brazilian as a permanent part of my life.

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If you haven’t already, do check out the other chapters of the Brazilian Saga.

Foreshadowing
Part One: Oh the Hair, the Hair!
Part Two: I totally caved
Part Three: OW OW OW OW OW OMGWTF OW
Part Four: The Day After