What would the first task you would embark on if you lived in the woods where it snowed from August 31 until July 15th and suddenly found your self on the beach in Miami smack dab in the middle of your bush growing season? Short of searching out a South American landscaping crew I think you would look for a South American landscaping crew, right?
While this, by far, was not the worst waxing experience I’ve ever had it probably could be categorized as the most bizarre experience to date.
First call, we will come to your room. 50 for bikini. 90 for Brazilian. Okay. I have very sensitive skin. I want to see what kind of wax. Is it hard wax? Is it strip wax? Hard wax is good. I will decide when the technician gets here. Okay. Bye
Second call. We will only come to your room for 90 Brazilian. Of course by all means. FUCKERS. I’m in Miami. It’s 80 degrees. The only thing separating me from the beach is the giant Side Show Bob Afro sticking out of every possible opening in my bikini.
By all means come to my room for 90 Brazilian and to watch me cry.
The lovely spa coordinator arrives to set up the table and to talk about my cute dress I’m wearing. And to get my money and to tell me that the gratuity is not included and to tell me that they prefer cash and to tell me that the technician is older and she has waxed Hayden Panitierreiolio.
Which made me feel so much more at ease.
Apparently Hayden wanted to get rid of everything too, including her ears.
I sign. She leaves.
Come in. We talk. Her name is Marianella. Yes. Yes, of course it is. We wait for the wax to warm up. We discuss the wax. She prefers strip wax. I prefer hard wax. I have sensitive skin. I bruise easy. She says the strip wax is easy. Easy on the skin. She’s been doing this for a long time. Nine years.
We wait for the rubber gloves to arrive that Marianella forgot.
Marianella answers her phone, but first.
“Sorry, me.” Right. Of course. Take that call before we get started.
On the table. Robe off. Hot wax. Muslin.
Again. Hot wax. Muslin. Unstick rubber gloves from me. Rip. Repeat.
Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc.
“Sorry, me.” Really another call? Now during? Uh…
We go on and on with this process. Until we get to the most sensitive of places yet she continues to answer her phone. And becomes increasingly nervous. And weird. And the “Sorry, me’s.” keep coming.
Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc.Dinc. Donc.Dinc. Donc.Dinc. Donc.
For CRYING THE FUCK OUT LOUD.
That’s a lot of short and curlies.
Finally it’s over. She packs up the table. Returns it to the spa. Comes back to gather the wax. Her personal belongings. Her phone. Her phone that in her absence rang.
Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc. Dinc. Donc.
With what could only be the thousands of FB, Twitter DM’s and BuzzFeed notifications of comments on the photos of my hoo haa she posted as she live blogged the service.
So my mind imagines.
And as she gathers up the basket of wax, forgetting her bag and phone she leaves a trail of hot wax starting in my room and winding down the carpeted hallway where I yell to her that she is leaking and she forgot her other stuff and before I know whats happening she is franticly spraying oil all over the place and rubbing it with a napkin and by now her pants are coated in wax and frayed bits of papertowels, the carpet looks like it isn’t enjoying it’s waxing service either and I’m on the floor in my room rubbing oil into the wax trying to pry it up withmy fingernails and why the fuck am I dealing with this.
A Flustered Marianella leaves .
The Dish is now back in the room.
The door is shut.
And the sound that came next could only be described as someone punting poor Marianella down the laundry shoot but, what ever. A moment later, the sobbing erupts and I can’t stop my self from pearing through the door and I try to get a picture because if Marianella is live blogging my wax then I sure as hell want pictures for my blog. But I refrain.
The sight of Marianella. Crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Sobbing.
With hot wax strewn about like she had tried to wax the Tasmanian Devil was to say the least….
OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.
The rest of my stay in Miami, I kept running into Marianella in the hotel and she kept giving me these really creepy stink eye vibes that were a blend of “il malocchio”, desperation and crazy.
Unrelated footnote: Just in case you’ve been punted down a laundry shoot since last week go check out the amazing thing that The Bloggess has done. And when you need more inspirational things to read please go vote for me over at Twaggies Caption Contest. Mine starts with “Every freaking time…” I need that t-shirt.