Pretty Hurts: My Date With Helga

I had a boyfriend for six years, but then we broke up.  After which, I spent a month and a half of doing nothing with my vagina but washing it. In that time, the situation got a little, well… hairy.

Picture 25

This pussy is out of control.

Not that there’s any problem with this look of course for all you women who want to get down with your bushy selves, but I was looking for a bit of a change.


Waxing fucking hurts. A lot. Even when done correctly. I had avoided this for sometime (re: six year relationship I-got-a-little-comfortable-and-lazy). Don’t get me wrong: I kept things clean and neat down there, but nothing as drastic as a wax. However, I’m going out with my friends the next night, and you never know what might happen.

Returning to the salon I used to frequent some years back, I ask the receptionist if Mi still works there. I loved Mi. She would turn the lights down low, put on some calming music, and work efficiently and quickly as she talked about how much she hated her husband. It wasn’t as though she was bitter or angry, it was just a simple fact: she hated that guy. “Like, we don’t even sit in the same room to watch television anymore. He’s so stupid.” I would laugh as she worked. “Do you have kids?” I once asked. “Noooo. I’m not having kids with him, he doesn’t even kiss me on the mouth.”

The receptionist said no, that Mi had left a while ago, and I wondered what happened to her. Was she was still living with the husband she despised, sitting in separate rooms of their childless home, each watching their program of choice?

“But Helga can help you.”

Helga is an Eastern European lady in her mid fifties with long purple shellacked nails and died blonde hair with dark roots. She takes me into a dimly lit room in the back and asks, “What do you want?” I tell her I want a Brazilian and she barks, “Take off your pants.”

Now, my usual experience is that you get moment alone to take off your pants and slip under a crisp white sheet. But Helga’s all business. I’m taken aback for a moment, but then realize she’s going to see it anyway, so why not just get to the point?

I lay down on the bed, and she exclaims, “Oh, you’re so skinny! Like a model!” giving one of my hip bones a light tap. Her work is aggressive, straight forward, and nothing short of terrifying.

She takes my hand and places it on my right thigh, “Hold the skin!” This isn’t an unusual practice to offer a hand, but it’s obvious that Helga doesn’t think I’m doing a great job as I clench before each strip. I can only imagine what kind of horror movie it sounded like from outside the door as Helga yells, “Stop moving! Hold the skin Susan! Skin has to be tight!”

The first strip she takes she holds up to me exclaiming, “See. See.” It looks like what a Muppet would if it was run over by a semi.  And I do see Helga, I do.

She rips off another strip, slapping the newly naked patch of flesh asking, “So, you want to have a sexy new look for your boyfriend?” At this point, I’ll tell her anything she wants if she just makes this pain stop. “No, no boyfriend” I say as she assess my remaining pubic hair.

“Can you put your legs over your head?” she asks. I’m not sure if she’s asking this question in reference to the wax, or the no boyfriend thing.

Regardless, my answer is two-fold: Yes. Yes I can put my legs over my head, and Why? Why do you need to know?

She laughs and tilts my legs up so my knees are on my chest, I close my eyes, hold my breath, and come as close to praying as I have in a long time in the hopes she doesn’t wax off my asshole.

She didn’t for the record. I still have an asshole.

After a quick sprinkle of baby powder, it’s all over. Helga washes her hands as I quickly dress in the corner.

“Now you’ll get a boyfriend”, she chuckles.

I would like to reiterate this is the first time someone has come into contact with my genitals for a month and a fucking half. To state the least, I didn’t think it would be a curt middle-aged woman. But she did the job, although she did leave me feeling a little raw.

I buy a bottle of aloe vera and Pinot Grigio on my waddle home. Why do I do this to myself? What did it matter that I had some hair down there? I don’t know why I fall into the traps of the ideal Western beauty?

A quarter of a bottle of aloe and a half of the Grigio later, I stare between my legs and realize I look the part of the little girl. Who has no idea what’s she’s doing.

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