On Friday morning, in preparation for my trip to Aruba, I started my day with a pre-work bikini wax.  I went to Bliss Spa, which uses this special Poetic Wax stuff that doesn’t stick to your skin and therefore hurts less when they rip it off.  I love it.

     What I don’t love is the particular brand of revulsion that my Mediterranean hairiness brings out in aestheticians.  You would think because they’re getting paid, and are also looking forward to a tip, they might be nicer, but you’d be wrong!  Over the years I have gotten it all, up to and including, “ma’am, did you want me to do your mustache, since I have you on the table?”  (um, no, not if you’re going to call it that).

     Pregnancy hormones have rendered the last five years of my life in hair control, which includes 4 rounds of laser hair removal, useless.  I’m back to square one, so I was really steeling myself for this particular appointment. 

     But….SURPRISE!  Waxers like pregnant women.  As soon as I told her I was knocked up, I was off the hook.  And even though it took the woman, no joke, 15 little wooden wax spreaders and probably 20 strips to get the job done (NOT a brazilian), she, a mother of four, was cheerful and passed the time relaying her (non-scary, thank GOD) birth stories.  Whew!