Yesterday, I regaled you with tales of Brazilian bikini waxes gone wrong. While reading that, you no doubt noticed that I said I had scheduled one for this morning, and you’ve probably been all, “how did it go?!” allllll morning.

Well, it’s done, and I’m here to tell you, that was FUCKING HORRIBLE.

I’m not going to sugarcoat this. 30 minutes ago, someone poured hot wax on the pubic hair on my inner labia (inner labia pubic hair, I barely knew ye) and ripped it out by the roots. This horrible procedure was repeated several times, on both ssides of my poor, aching vagina, then again on my asscrack, which frankly, by that point, felt like a cool sip of refreshing mojito on a hot summer’s day.

I know I’m not the first person to get a Brazilian, and I’m sure I’m not the first to document it. In fact, people probably stopped documenting it about three years ago because the story had reached the point of oversaturation, which makes my tale of woe and wax either adorable in it’s retro naivete, or painfully tardy to the party. I don’t really care. Right now, as I sit on my Pilates ball to write this, my vagina stings and smarts. The aloe gel that I put on it 15 minutes ago is sticking to my underwear. And I’m sure that when I go to hit the pool tomorrow  — the entire point of this modern-day torture — I will have giant splotches of red, angry bumps, my vagina’s way of saying NO MEANS NO.

But here’s something you probably aren’t expecting me to say: I think I’m going to do it again.

The very few times in my life that I’ve had bikini waxes, the same thing always happens. I forget how hideous it is (granted — none of them have ever been as hideous as this one), and I don’t do it again for 3-5 years because I’m like, fuck THAT noise. But any waxer, as you know, will tell you it gets easier with time, and that is a theory I’ve never tested.

Why would I want to test it, you ask? Well — I want to know, living here in Southern California as I do, what it would feel like to be bikini-ready at all times (as we’ve discussed here before). What if a spontaneous invitation to the beach DIDN’T mean a frantic trip to Rite-Aid, followed by cowering in a bathroom stall hunched over my pubic area with a razor and a stick of deoderant (helps relieve razor rash) trying to get under the best lighting possible so that no stray pube went unshaved? Would it be a relief? Or do I actually not get that many spontaneous invivations to the beach?

I think I’m going to find out, ladies. So I’ll check back with you in about a month, after another 15 minutes of hot wax to the ‘gi. In the meantime, I’m off to the pool (after I blog a few more times).