A Brazilian: It’s no Carnival

8 Jun

During many of my ‘I’m freaking out about labour’ chats the one thing every person with children says is “if it was that bad, then no one would have more than one child”. I disagree. I think they’re just trying to make me feel better. I think it is that bad. And I disagree because I think women secretly enjoy torturing themselves. Why do I think this? Because no matter how much I scream and wriggle and vow to never let anyone with a pot of wax near me ever again, I keep going back for a bikini wax.

Why I do this I have no idea. It kills. And it kills even more when you are pregnant because of your increased hormones. It’s not like I forget what it’s like each time. Oh no, I remember every single painstaking hair being ripped out of my body. So much so that before I even walk through the beauticians door the heart palpitations and sweating start. Why do I put myself through this? Perhaps my theory is true and I really do enjoy self-torture, it must be, because since finding out I was with child I’ve been twice.

The first time I went I was about 6 weeks pregnant and secretly hoping the beautician would tell me I wasn’t allowed to have it done. My hopes were dashed as she instructed me to strip off, lay on the bed and spread em. I do as I’m told, but I still find this hideously embarrassing. It’s like, ‘I don’t know you, you don’t know me, we are in fact total strangers, but I’m going to flash you my vagina and guess what, you can even touch it’’. When you think about it, it’s a very unnatural situation. It’s almost as bad as having a smear test. Only more painful.

So, when I’m in a situation where I am flustered and trying not to think about how much something hurts. I talk. A lot. And because I’m about to go to New York I talk about this. Starting with my fear of flying. Unfortunately waxing lady also likes to talk. I say unfortunately because she is also pregnant, and for some reason she thinks it’s a good idea to tell me all about a horrendous flight she went on to the States, and how the she thought the plane was going to crash and how it got so bad she thought she may miscarry. Not the most appropriate of conversation. I really hadn’t expected that the usual ‘are you going on your holidays’ chat would turn into the film Alive. Is it not enough that she’s already physically torturing me as well as mentally scaring me too?

As I’m lying there praying for it to be over, I vow never to do this again. Pretty much, I imagine what I’ll be thinking come October and I’m screaming in the labour ward thinking that in comparison to giving birth, a Brazilian wax feels like I’m being tickled with a feather.

After what feels like three hours, it’s done and I can escape the torture chamber. On my way home I pop into Boots and buy some hair removal cream. I am never having it done again, ever. That is until 6 weeks later, ahead of a weekend away in Rome, and I’m lying on a different bed in a different beautician shop showing yet another stranger my bits. And it hurts, a lot. It’s hurts as much as it did the time before. It hurts so much I actually yelp. “This will be nothing compared to having your baby” says beautician laughing.  “When I had my children….” And it’s there I cut her off. I’ve had enough torture for one sitting. I can talk about anything, birth stories I cannot. “Err, ever flown pregnant?

A Brazilian? Trust me, a hot sunny South American country it is not. A bastard. That’s what they should call it.


One Response to “A Brazilian: It’s no Carnival”

  1. mothersruined June 29, 2012 at 2:10 pm #

    I reckon that you should forget the Brazilian and have a standard. So much less painful, and so much better looking…

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