My first wax almost killed me. Like, for real.

Everyone told me I would be fine. That I was overthinking it. That it was uncomfortable, sure, but painful? No. I’d be fine. I decided to believe them. So, I popped an Advil and headed north on the streetcar for my 6pm appointment.

As soon as I lay down on the table I got a little anxious. I stared up into the cold white light, baffled that my life had come to this. I was half-naked, about to voluntarily let someone put hot wax down there and rip. It. Off.

She entered the room. “Helloooo!” she sang out, smiling and happy and oblivious.

“Hello,” I responded.

She started to trim. We talked about The Bachelor and I even laughed a couple times. And then she reached for the wax.

“I might cry,” I told her, already feeling the tears welling up in my eyes. “That’s just how my body reacts to things.”

She laughed. “Oh girl, you’re fine,” she responded. “Some women cry, some scream, some swear the entire time.” We both laughed. She had no idea what was coming. She started to work the first bit of wax in, and I was done. The tears came, fast and furious.

She ripped. I cried harder. My nose started running and I covered my eyes with my hands. She worked in another strip of wax. I cried more. My nose ran down my chin and I couldn’t even bring myself to wipe it away.

“So,” she asked. “What’s the special occasion?”

“I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW!” I blubbered back. She waxed. She ripped. I cried and cried. She told me to relax. I told her I couldn’t.

“Honestly, I don’t think I can do a Brazilian,” she finally said. “I can’t morally bring myself to keep going.”

My response came in another heave of snot and tears. I was half done. I couldn’t go any further, so she patted my head and told me I was pretty and left the room.

I lay there, half naked and staring up at the cold, white light. I cried and cried and cried. I got up. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe how beautiful and clean it all looked. I understood the appeal despite how traumatic the past ten minutes had been. Slowly, I dressed and headed toward the front desk. The receptionist smiled at me.

“How was it?” she brightly asked.

Once again, I started to cry. I shook my head. Tried to laugh. Failed. I stood there, staring into her eyes and shaking as the tears streamed down my face.

She was alarmed, and I didn’t blame her. After a long back pat and cup of tea, she told me it was on the house. “Go get some wine and call your girlfriends,” she suggested, smiling warmly at my tear stained face. My response was to cry, obviously.

This is the story of my first wax. It was exhausting. It was horrible. I have not gone back. I would like to go back. I think I can, and I think I will, and I know it will be worth it. I think perhaps I psyched myself out. Maybe I overthought it. Maybe I simply forgot how to be a rational human being. Regardless of why or who or how, my first wax was an absolutely horrible ten minute experience. I think it almost killed me.

This story has no moral; no life lesson, no key takeaway. This story is simply written for all those women who get regularly waxed and consistently and live to tell the tale. I admire you. I strive to be like you one day. And regardless of how bad it gets, just know you have one thing going for you: you survived your wax. This fact alone is worth a daily celebration.

Tonight, I drink to you.