Virgin(36)

After a while, she said, “Okay, I’m going to need you to pull the lips open so I can get right in there and take the hair off the sides. Pull one knee up like that, and then . . . yep, that’s it. Push your knees far apart.”

My knees were bent and spread out, my hands were pulling my labia open, and my body was so contorted I felt like I was doing intermediate yoga over her paper-clad bed.

“Is this, um, right?” I grunted, focusing all my energy on maintaining the pose.

“Perfect,” she trilled as she slathered the wax onto my most delicate bits. My eyes opened wide in horror as I saw the white strip descend onto the fragile-looking skin before she ripped it off abruptly. I howled in pain and felt tears in the corners of my eyes.

“Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all. “The hairs are pretty thick down here, so it’s going to hurt a bit, but I’ll try to get them all off for you.”

Try?! She was a trained beautician—at least I hoped she was—so surely she was accustomed to getting the toughest hairs out. There was no way I was going to leave with patches of pubes all over my VJ.

“I’ve got most of them out now,” she said, after five more strips yanked my poor pubes out. “Turn on your front now, and rest on your hands and knees.”

Resisting the temptation to lie there stroking my raw skin, I obeyed her and turned onto my front. Then I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees, doing the Pilates table pose on her bed.

“Can you just use one hand to pull your bum cheek to the side?” she asked casually.

I gingerly removed my left hand and pulled my left bum cheek to the side as requested, wobbling slightly on my right hand. She put more wax down my bum crack and I breathed slowly, preparing myself for the pain.

“You didn’t trim down here,” she tutted in annoyance. “The hairs are going to pull. Next time you need to trim all the way in the G-string area.”

She ripped the strips off and the pain wasn’t as bad as I had expected. The skin must be tougher there because it felt kind of cleansing. She did the other side, and I wobbled less as I leaned on my left hand and held the other cheek open. I tried not to think about the fact that she could see parts of my body in more detail that I would ever be able to.

“There we go,” she said. “Now, lie on your front and let me pluck out any stray hairs.”

She got out some tweezers and began pulling little hairs out. I craned my neck downwards in curiosity, as the thought of tweezing down there had never crossed my mind.

“Lie back,” she snapped, and I quickly rested my head back down on the bed where the tissue paper had scrunched up and I could feel the cold leather of the bed against my skin.

“Okay,” she said eventually. “Let me just rub some aloe vera onto the skin and then you’re done.”

She squirted freezing-cold liquid onto my skin and started rubbing it all over. I tensed up as she started to rub on the lips and wondered if this counted as sexual harassment. Was I being molested by my waxing lady?

“Lovely,” she said. “I’ll see you upstairs to pay when you’re changed.”

She walked out of the room and I immediately sat up straight to look down and see the finished result. The entire vagina was bare, with tiny red dots all over the pale white skin. It looked like a plucked chicken, apart from a tiny patch of black hair in the middle. Was this what it was meant to look like? Emma had insinuated there should be a thick strip of hair down the whole thing but mine just looked like a tiny rectangle.

In fact, I thought as I tilted my head, my VJ looked like it had a little moustache on it. A Hitler moustache.



“So, that will be . . . twenty-four pounds for the Playboy, plus ten for the G-string area,” the peroxide bitch said as her pink acrylics tapped away on the calculator.

I stared at her in shock. “What? No, I thought it was eighteen quid.”

“Oh, no, that’s just for a normal Brazilian. As you can see, the Playboy Brazilian takes more hair off so it’s twenty-four. A full Hollywood is twenty-six, you see. Then, because you’ve had all the hair off at the back too, that’s another tenner,” she explained.

Silently I handed her my debit card and paid thirty-four pounds for my Hitler moustache. I didn’t say another word to her and barely mumbled “bye” to Yasmin as I escaped from the shop and let the flyer-clad door swing shut behind me. I pulled my phone out from my bag and rang Emma immediately.

“Heya,” she answered. “All ready for the big date?”

“I have an emergency,” I blurted out. “I just went to a salon and got a Playboy Brazilian wax and now my vagina has a tiny Hitler moustache in the middle. The rest of it looks like it has acute chicken pox. Please tell me this is normal.”