A Hairy Situation

Erin: I have decided we are going to go get Brazilian waxes.

Lisa: Okay.

Erin: That went over better than I thought it would. You are drinking wine, watching Lifetime and not really listening to me aren’t you?

Lisa: What?

Lisa’s Version of Events

I am not a person who holds grudges. I would like to say this is because I am so spiritually evolved, but truthfully I just have the shittiest memory ever. So when Erin informed me that we were going to get Brazilian waxes, I just assumed she wanted to spend time with me like everyone else in the world does.

I pulled up to Erin’s house to pick her and her sweet, innocent sister (whom she also demanded be in attendance) up and watched with squinty eyes as she loaded a styrofoam cooler full of ice packs into my car. She then plucked a Bible out of a bag of stuff she was donating to Goodwill and tossed it on the seat. Her kids asked where we were going. Without missing a beat, she said, “We are going to go get our lips waxed.” I didn’t even get her joke until like twenty minutes later because I was so stressed out.

Erin insisted the wax place was not actually where map quest, their actual website and the latitude and longitude of a space satellite said it was located. The three of us got out and started wondering around looking for it. We saw a redheaded (AKA ginger- for those who prefer political correctness) guy with a really long beard walking around aimlessly. Obviously, he couldn’t find the place either. At this point, my anxiety was skyrocketing. I just needed someone to wax my butt so I could return to the familiar comforts of my home.

Eventually, Erin placed a phone call and laughed heartily when she discovered they had moved. Haha. Fucking hysterical. We walked into the salon and immediately my keen intuition suggested something was askew when Erin simply had to sign in, while her sister and I had to fill out two pages of paperwork and provide a blood sample. Omg, what a little hussy.

Erin’s waxer appeared, they linked arms and skipped back to her room. I, on the other hand, got the skittish waxer who legit tried to pawn me off on someone else once she realized we were bloggers. I spent thirty minutes comforting her while she ripped my pubes out with hot wax.

I was nearly incoherent from nauseating pain when it occurred to me that our precious Erin had methodically plotted her revenge for the time I accidentally took her to that nasty Korean bathhouse months ago. Or, maybe it was because I laughed hysterically when I learned she was the homecoming queen in high school…Whatever her motive, Psycho made her point.

Erin’s Correct Version of Events

First off, I politely informed my sister she was going to accompany us on said excursion. Her birthday is right before Lisa’s and I decided to kill two cats with one stone (or however that stupid saying goes.) I wanted to get them something they would remember, something that would remind them of me…an ass wax.

The Korean bathhouse was indeed traumatizing, but the psychotherapy and shock treatments I have been receiving are totally helping. Annnnd while I was homecoming queen in high school, it wasn’t as though I made a shadow box containing my tiara in memorandum of this momentous occasion. People probably assumed I was a stuck up little bitch when I ran off the football field in front of hundreds of people after I was crowned. In truth, this event served as foreshadowing to what would later be diagnosed as a “severe anxiety disorder.”

Second, I never claimed that I was a waxing virgin. I clearly hold my body to a higher standard and the ungodly sights at the Korean bathhouse only solidified this postulation. Maybe my vagina is calloused or maybe I just got lucky because my waxer was going through a divorce and channelled her frustrations onto my lady garden OR maybe I am just not a giant baby like Lisa is.

My sister walked into the lobby white as a sheet, mumbling incoherently, with a hollow look in her eyes after her appointment. Shit. I totally forgot to tell her if she didn’t leave a little landing strip/ Hitler stash, her lady parts would resemble a naked mole rat. I just knew she was sporting the mole rat.

Meanwhile, Lisa was not talking to me and intently studying the display of waxing products. She plucked out the most expensive cream they had, claimed her “waxer preferred this brand for a post wax” and plopped it on the counter with a smug look on her face. I narrowed my eyes at her uppity vagina and handed over my credit card.

We got in the car, shoved the ice packs down our pants and drove to Starbucks in total silence. I f’ing knew I should have given them Chipotle gift cards.