Who knows you better than anyone in the world? Who knows every little freckle, mole, scar, hair follicle? Who, because they know every freckle, mole, scar, hair follicle, do you feel exceedingly comfortable with disclosing the most intimate details of your life? Most of you may say your husband, boyfriend, significant other, spousal equivalent, lover, close friend, family member. For me? My esthetician.
True, my significant other may know the freckles, moles, scars, but probably not the hair follicles, and not quite ALL of the most intimate details of my life. My daughter and close, close friends may know some, or most of the most intimate details of my life, likely not ALL, and certainly not the “landmarks” on my body, in particular, my bikini region.
My first bikini wax, I was nervous, of course. A stranger working in that region to an extent that even my OB/GYN may blush at. I, somehow, lucked out and was assigned to an awesome esthetician, Sam. Over the course of the visit, she chatted with me about this, that and the other. She was casual, funny, very consultative, made me feel at ease and just got stuff done. My next visit, she remembered almost every detail of the our previous discussions. Impressive. My daughter came along for some similar “work”, and upon finding we were a mother/daughter duo, invited us into sort of a “combined” bikini wax party chat session, with only one of us on the table, at a time, of course, the other relegated to the stool in the corner. This became our tradition, and Sam always seemed delighted to see us, whether we had appointments at the same time, or at different times, always inquiring about relevant current events and remembering all the finer details.
Sam moved to another salon, a little further away. We followed, continuing our bikini wax party chat sessions. Eventually, though, Sam moved to another state, as did my daughter, and the party was over. Devastated at the news, in an effort to console me, Sam recommended another esthetician she thought would suit me, and was right. My first visit with my new esthetician, a rapport quickly developed (like, by the end of the first visit) and we were chatting about all sorts of things very quickly and very naturally. Again, my new esthetician was casual, funny, consultative, made me feel at ease and just got stuff done.
My new esthetician was so good, she recently got promoted to a management position at yet another location. She’d no longer be performing services, but I decided to follow her to the new location, and to follow her recommendation for a new esthetician, which, again, has worked out well. My new esthetician isn’t quite as well-versed in all the intimate details of my life as the first two, as she is a bit more reserved, but she still knows things about me that some of my closest friends and family don’t. Well, at least after the last visit, she does.
It has become my practice, as of the past several months, to not wear panties with my jeans. That’s right, no undies. I go commando. I have always suffered from horrible, unsightly, panty lines, due to the general nature of my shape. I think panty lines are hideous. Thongs are a solution, but as I also am built in a way that anything with a waistband tries to seek out my waist, which is short and very high up, you can probably guess that I find thongs uncomfortable after about ten minutes. One day, I just got fed up and took my thong off, put my jeans back on, and I have been liberated, most of the time, ever since. Now you know an extremely intimate detail about me, welcome to the ever-growing club. If you haven’t tried going sans panties, do. Don’t say no until you go commando!
On bikini wax day, as, until now, only one person on the planet knew about my new “preference”, I would usually put on undies so when I undressed in front of my esthetician, it appeared as though I wore underwear, like most normal, respectable, middle-aged women. Admittedly, this is something I’d do five minutes before leaving the house for my appointment, not something I did that morning when I got dressed. I really don’t like wearing underwear. I like buying it and having a drawer full of it, and may wear it on occasion if it matches a bra or other intimate article, for an evening with my significant other, as an example.
On my last visit, I dutifully selected an incredibly cute thong from my drawer full of incredibly cute thongs and donned it. Upon arriving at the salon and being greeted by my esthetician, I was directed to her room where I disrobed, as usual. I neatly folded my jeans and placed the panties within the folds, which is my rather OCD manner of dealing with clothes not required during personal services; bikini waxes, massages, doctor visits, etc., well, actually, there are not etcs., just bikini waxes, massages, and on extremely rare occasions, a doctor visit. After my bikini wax, as my esthetician disinfected the table and filled out my bill, we chatted and I got dressed. I pulled my jeans on and turned when something flew across the room and hit the floor, only to see my incredibly cute thong panties at my esthetician’s feet. Not at, actually, more like on. There was this incredibly long, awkward silence. My jeans were on, they were all zipped up, I’d even stepped into my shoes, and my incredibly cute thong was atop my esthetician’s feet. How could I be embarrassed? She had just removed hair from follicles my closest confidants don’t even know exist! So, I laughed, and said “Ha! I don’t usually wear underwear, guess I forgot about them!” By now, she’d sort of discreetly kicked them aside and within my reach, I grabbed them and stuffed them into the outside pocket of my purse as she watched. I certainly didn’t want to take off my shoes, take off my jeans, put that torturous thong on and get dressed all over again! That would have made way too big of a production out of something I just wanted to be over with! I snapped the purse pocket shut and exclaimed, “I hope I remember they’re in there before I pull something out of my purse and have them fall out!” I laughed. She laughed.
Yes, THAT would be embarrassing!
The whole drive home, I chanted to myself silently, “take underwear out of purse, take underwear out of purse, take underwear out of purse”. And I did.