The complicity of showing us the fig
No matter how many times you have faced this process, every time you return it seems like the first time: you feel clumsy, bewildered, too inexperienced.
PalmDepending on how you look at it, getting a wax is a ritual of complicity between women. No one has taught us these, nor have we agreed to them, but we have codes, a nonverbal language, that allows us to break away from them during this procedure. Weekly, for some; monthly or even yearly, for others. In my case, wanting to put on my bikini in peace and let the headaches go away leads me at least once a summer to the Rosita y Carlos beauty salon, where most of us girls in Palma have ended up at some point, recommended by a friend of a friend of a friend. In fact, not even Clara Ingold is an exception. The comedian mentions her own experience at the aforementioned salon in her show. Park pigeon, where he gives an exquisite account of pubic hair removal trends (and how they consist of removing more and more hair).
The thing is, no matter how many times you've faced this process, every time you go back it always seems like the first time: you feel clumsy, bewildered, too inexperienced. It all starts with a phone call: "Yes, I wanted to make an appointment to get my groin waxed." The response already disorients you, leaving you at a disadvantage: "Okay, how do you want it: natural, full, Brazilian, Caribbean...?" Since asking to be told, over the phone, the differences between that whole range of options—and because they all have such tropical names—doesn't seem like a good idea, you choose the only one you've managed to remember or that, hopefully, sounds like something you've chosen before (without remembering if it was a good decision).
The day of the appointment arrives and the cathartic experience begins, which suddenly brings your feet back to the ground. In the background, the sounds of The Top 40 And suddenly, they usher you into one of the compartments into which the living room is divided, booths separated by a kind of screen that completely shuts out other people's conversations—including yours, so you prefer to keep quiet and listen. A woman explains where she's going on vacation, another complains about her husband... all while they leave you as smooth as a dolphin. It's like waiting at the fishmonger's, the bus stop, or the doctor's office, only there you're half-naked, face up, trying to maintain what little dignity you have left.
There are few acts of greater humility than surrendering to that stretcher and the paper covering it, which in five minutes will be stuck to your back and ass. "Oh, sorry, it's really hot today," you'll excuse yourself after getting up, having left a whole pile of sweat. Now, we all know that it's really more the fault of the bad experience you just endured, than the temperature.
Right off the bat, if you're not a regular, you'll face questions that sound more like reproaches than doubts, and that remind you why you only come here a couple of times a year: "So you shave with a razor?" You haven't even started and you already feel like you've done everything wrong. However, the woman is already curling her lips and waiting for you to finally get your mind ready to encase yourself in a wax so hot it almost anesthetizes you. "One, two, three..." Boom, boom! And, as if that weren't enough: "Now get off your butt and grab your buttocks." Then, you remember the phone conversation and think, "No, please, which option did I choose?" But the waxer's indifferent attitude, which shows that this is the umpteenth time she's seen a woman's figure that day, makes you trust her, and you decide to live the experience to the end.
When you're done, you leave, dazed from the sting of the 90-proof alcohol and intoxicated by the talcum powder now resting on your groin. I suppose that's why I'd never stopped to contemplate the grand gesture of intimacy that entrusting your bikini trunks to someone represents.
It wasn't until I recounted this entire process to my boyfriend that I fully realized it. "And you don't mind having to strip naked for that?" he asked. The fact that this could seem so far-fetched to him showed me the capacity we women can have with each other to establish bonds of trust without even knowing each other's names. It only takes minimal words and a few gestures to make the lightness of any situation, no matter how uncomfortable, evident to each other. I imagine that's precisely what makes us—despite everything—repeat the same ritual every summer.