The Burning Bush

The following blog post is a public service announcement.

In preparation for going to Curaçao with my daughter this week in celebration of her 18th birthday and taking into account the fact that I’d be wearing a swimsuit for the first time this year, I decided to do some (what the fuck is the female version of manscaping called?) … personal grooming.

My friend Brandy told me about how if you use this stuff called VEET, you can quite easily groom your lady bit area without having to shave. She reported that it doesn’t stink like old school Nair in the 80s, and that you could use it painlessly ‘all over’.

Cool. Saw it in the Walgreens, brought it home. I was home alone at the time, thankfully avoiding Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for any family members’ potential therapy bills… if they had heard the screams.

I’m a trusting person. I’m like ok, this thing is for hair removal. I’m also lazy- as in, I don’t need to read those package instructions- because the print is too small anyway.

Female citizens of the universe: do not EVER, EVER skip reading package instructions of a hair removal product prior to applying it to your vaginal region.

I decide I will apply it to my general genitalia, and while it’s working its muff magic (which I assume is what- like 5 or 10 minutes? I don’t know, since I DIDN’T READ THE INSTRUCTIONS) - hey! I may as well use the time wisely and apply some more. Why not everywhere?! I won’t have to shave my legs! I can do my arms and my armpits- this will be great.

So I literally slather out 2 entire huge, poufy handfuls of the white cream onto my hands and start spreading it (heh) all over my legs and arms. I now am almost completely covered in white- I look like a fucking snowman- when I remember my underarms.

At this time, I am starting to notice my entire crotch region is starting to become very – let’s just say… warm and tingly and not in the good way. 

So what I do next, if you can just get a mental picture of this, is I sort of sweep one arm over my head, resting it unknowingly on my hair, and spread cream on one underarm- then I sweep the other arm over the other side of my head, resting a second armful of hair removal cream onto my hair.

In the meantime, my brain is screaming VAGINA ON FIRE! VAGINA ON FIRE! 

And then? Because God is obviously a woman and I might not have noticed otherwise? I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I now have a full-size headband helping of white cream across my entire head.

I turned on the 1881 clawfoot tub faucet (not wanting to ‘spread out’ direct water impact by using the showerhead) as fast as I can, but I’d guess it takes about four minutes for the hot water to be fully on. The water is icy, and I have a choice to make: save my hair or put out the burning bush that my entire nether-regions have become.

Fuck my hair, I decide. I can wear baseball caps and just keep explaining to people when they give me sympathetic looks that no, I don’t have cancer.

I jump my stupid, white grease-covered ass into the bathtub, sliding towards the faucet like it’s home plate bottom of the ninth tie score two outs and spread my legs, throwing them over the sides of the tub so that the sweet, sweet water can extinguish the fever in my beaver.

I spend about 30 minutes with a loofah washcloth because the shit doesn’t just wash off, you have to scrub it off. I shampoo my hair three times, and avoid looking at the drain. I throw my hair up into a towel without looking into the mirror. I take a fresh washcloth, soak it in the iciest water available and roll it, creating a chilly maxi pad for my scorched slit, grab the bottle of VEET and plop down on my bed.

You know, to read the instructions.

The first thing I see:

“READ PRECAUTIONS BEFORE USE.” (wise words, my friends)

Then:

Before use, “TEST SKIN REACTION BY APPLYING TO A SMALL AREA OF SKIN.”

(Too late, Buffalo Bill. It has already put the lotion on its skin, and MY CAT’s HURT REALLLL BAD, MISTER!)

More helpful instructions: “Designed for use on legs, arms, underarms & bikini line, but not suitable for use on the face, head, breast, perianal, or genital areas or on any other body parts.”

What the fuck is the difference exactly between your bikini line and your genital areas? You know who I bet knows the answer? The bitch who’s doing my bikini wax a LONG TIME from now when I reconsider my current life choice: that having a 70s porn star bush is fucking BACK IN STYLE.

All those instructions would’ve been good to know, plus the fact that the time you are supposed to leave it on is 3 minutes minimum, six minutes maximum.

I lie on the bed, contemplating that the good nuns at Mother of Divine Providence Catholic School in King of Prussia, PA taught me to read for a motherfucking reason and perhaps I should consider doing it next time before I apply harmful chemicals to 75% of my body. I’m scared to take the towel off my head and more scared to comb my hair, if there’s any left.

I think about how maybe If I have a Mohawk left, I’ll dye it bright orange and just pretend I did it on purpose- no one would be surprised by this, especially if I said it was in honor of the Philadelphia Flyers being in the playoffs this week.

I get lucky. My (head) hair is definitely thinner, but in a convincingly “I just got my hair thinned out by a professional hairdresser and not by putting bikini wax cream all over my head” way than a “yeah, doesn’t it suck that I have imaginary cancer?” way.

It will be another 15 minutes before I remove the vajayjay icepack, because it is definitely soothing the flaming hoo-hah.

Which (along with “Beaver Fever”) should either be the name of a rock band, or my new nickname:

The Flaming Hoo-hah.