Today I got Waxed

written on September 3, 2008

Today I got waxed. It’s a quasi-masochistic ritual that I find quite enjoyable. It’s not available in small towns in Chile and it’s not affordable in the U.S. so it’s a special treat anytime I’m in the big city in Chile.

When I lived in Santiago, Marisol, my host mom, gave me my first ever waxing. I watched, intrigued, as she slathered the hot, caramal-esque substance on my legs. I flinched as she ripped off one long strip of it, unconsciously clenching my teeth and wincing. She insisted that the tenser I was the more difficult it was for the hairs to release. As if my forced relaxation would convince the hairs to just raise their arms in a state of zen and be lifted right out of the follicles willingly. I found it hard to believe and even harder to practice.

She told me my legs were “feas,” ugly, from using a razor and that if made the switch to waxing I wouldn’t get those red bumps. I tried not to pout. I also tried not to point out that my legs were much more muscular and shapely than hers, thank you very much. I silently concluded that waxing wasn’t for me.

A few months later, I got out of the shower of my Santiago home and realized that the combination of a chilly Chilean winter and my lack of interest in Chilean men had resulted in legs that resembled a wooly mammoth hide. I had quite a bit of time on my hands that particular day and decided to give this waxing gig a second chance. I chose to put myself at the mercy of a stranger rather than let Marisol touch my "ugly" legs again.

My clearest memory of that, my second waxing experience, was the way the woman rubbed baby powder on my legs when she was finished. I found her human touch to be divine. Not to mention the way my jeans felt against my hairless shins as I practically skipped home. I was hooked, and continued visiting this charming old woman roughly once a month during my remaining five months in Santiago. I even graduated to waxing above the thighs, a daring move for me.

Now, two years later, I’ve just returned to Chile after a summer visit to the U.S. The hair on my legs have again reached wooly mammoth proportions and this time I blame its unruliness on the 31-day mountaineering course in which I had participated in the states. I only have a short time in Santiago and, although my schedule is tight, I knew that it´s now or never. I have to make time.

I enter the “caracol,” a large gallery whose principal hallway winds around like a snail shell (hence it´s Spanish name), gradually forming several floors, each with a slight incline. There are salons on every side, including above and below. I walk with purpose, with a forged sense of confidence. It´s 9:30 a.m. and despite its location in downtown Santiago, the caracol is quite empty, the majority of the salons closed. I spot one on the third floor that declares in large blue letters on the glass fachade, “Centro de Depilación.” This will be my place. Besides, they probably get very little business located all the way on the third floor, it will be nice to give them mine, I reason.

I make three circles around the caracol before finally reaching the Centro. I knock. I am ushered in. “We have a special,” the only woman working tells me as she wipes her hands on her apron. “Half-leg and armpits for three thousand pesos.” That´s a little over six dollars. I look at my watch: 35 minutes until a meeting down the street. “Let’s do it,” I tell her.

She pulls back a curtain to reveal a bed not unlike that of a doctor’s examination room. It´s even covered with a strip of roll-out paper. She indicates a hanger and tells me to undress before she slips out.

It actually is like visiting a doctor, this process of getting practically naked (down to my bra and underwear) with a complete stranger. I gingerly remove my shoes, my socks, my pants. I sat on the crinkly paper and patiently waited.

I told myself, I’m never going to see this woman again so I shouldn’t really care what she thinks about how absurdly hairy my legs and underarms are. But then I couldn’t help but feel bad about the rap I was giving all gringos out there. I’m constantly aware of my position as an informal non-appointed ambassador for the United States. I’m always representing my country whether I like it or not. For some people, I’m the only American they may ever know. Usually I like to think I make a decent impression. This time however, I couldn’t help but imagine the stories this woman would share with her co-workers while they smoked cigarette and painted their nails. “I waxed this gringa the other day and she was out-of-control hairy. I mean, they must not ever shave or wax!” Puff. Exhale. Wave of cigarette. "You should´ve seen her. It was bad." I have to admit I feel a bit guilty about this and so try to explain about the mountaineering course, that it’s not usually this “bad” (although those who know me may offer contention).

The thing I’ve grown to enjoy about waxing is the challenge it presents to remain relaxed in an uncomfortable situation. I’m not referring to the social discomfort and awkwardness (I´ve been dealing with that ever since I first arrived to Chile on near daily basis) but rather the physical discomfort the process entails. That first time I thought Marisol was certifiably insane for insisting that I just RELAX. And since then that is just what I’ve trained myself to do. I repeast, quasi-masochistic. It´s striving for a state of zen, of controlling one´s breath in order to calm the nerves. And trust me, it´s not easy to not hold your breath when you see that someone is about to rip the hairs from your groin by the root. But it´s what I challenge myself to do. And lord knows I enjoy a good challenge.