To say that getting waxed at this particular salon is an “intimate experience,” doesn’t even begin to describe what happened next.

“I’m going to start by placing your left foot against the inside of your right leg,” A said, grabbing my ankle. “We’ll finish up with your foot resting against my hip.”

I nodded and tried to relax as A bent and repositioned my legs like they were tent poles and braced myself as she smeared wax down my thigh. But I’d clearly forgotten how painful waxing genitalia can be. And after more than five years, with only occassional summer shavings, my pubic hairs had laid down some pretty deep roots. When I say deep, imagine a Gigantic Sequoia or an ancient Banyan. Now imagine ripping a whole forest of those trees out by their roots. That’s the kind of deep I’m talking about.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. But only a little.

Little did I know, the fun was just beginning. Once A had ripped all the hair away, she grabbed my foot and hoisted it up to her waist. I haven’t had my legs spread that wide since I was up on the delivery table with my feet in stirrups giving birth to my daughters. My mind couldn’t quite compute this level of exposure and I had what I can only describe as an out of body experience. Me, N, first-time novelists and mother-of-two sort of went “someplace else,” leaving behind some other other woman who was crazy enough to pay good money to have someone rip all the hair off her “taint.” For those of you who aren’t familiar with the word “taint,” here’s a crude but accurate definition: it’s that no-man’s land between your vagina (or penis) and your anus. Or, as W likes to say, “it ‘taint your ass and it ‘taint your balls.”

Meanwhile, A swooped in to do the detail work. Her head was bowed and her face was so close to me, I swear I could feel her breath against my . . . well, you know. She plucked the few remaining strands and then moved to the other side where she bent, re-positioned, smeared, ripped, hoisted and plucked all over again.

Before I climbed down from the table, A offered one last service. “Some clients ask that we wax the hair on the booty,” she said and patted her backside.

I was speechless.

A waited for my response.

“I think I’m okay for now,” I said. “I’m not sure I even have hair on my booty, but thanks.”

Sitting here, writing this post, I have to laugh. If nothing else, I’m proud to have treated myself. My eyebrows really do look terrific and my lower half looks like a little like Charlie Chaplin.

Miraculously, my time with A has eased the thought that the novel has to wait a few more days. Christmas and New Years are just moments away. Between the cooking and gift wrapping, I’ll find a bit of time to read and maybe even write a sentence or two.

And yes, I’m happy to report that before I left the salon, I made an appointment to go back in January.

Merry Christmakwazikah to all, and to all a good night.

Other than having to ask A to put a bit more curve in my brows so I wouldn’t look like Burt from Sesame Street, I was pleased with the results. A did a fine job.

“Now for the Brazilian,” she said and gave her bottle of baby powder a quick shake.

By this time, I’d spent twenty minutes stretched out on the table, listening to groovy ethnic music and inhaling whatever fragrance wafted from the candles on a nearby shelf. I was blissed-out, just conscious enough to respond to what A had just said.

“The Brazilian?”

A nodded. “We do it a little differently here,” she said. “We give you a nice “V” in front to keep you looking soft and feminine, but we take off everything from the labia on back. A lot of women who give birth come to see us first. Sort of a two-step labor and delivery thing. The doctors over at the hospital always recognize our work.”

As I listened to A, all I could think about was, “labia on back.” Sabrina had never said anything about the labia. And how much hair could I have back there anyway? I thought about all those women in the locker room at the gym. Did they have Brazilians? Did they have much hair from the “labia on back?” I tried to picture it. I must have had a strange look on my face because A added, “Or, if you’re not comfortable with that, we can do a modified Brazilian.”

I stepped out of my jeans and underwear, then stood aside while A spread a sheet of wax paper on the table and motioned for me to lie down. Somehow I managed to mutter, “Yeah, a modified Brazilian. That sounds about right.”

I should’ve known I was in the big leagues when, after checking me in, the receptionist asked if I’d like to go to the bathroom to “freshen up.” But I was completely distracted and didn’t pick up on the hint. I’d spent fifteen minutes circling the neighborhood for a parking space and had run . . . yes run, six blocks in order to arrive at the salon on time. I was barely holding it together, struggling to catch my breath, praying I hadn’t sweat through my blouse.

“That’s okay,” I said, but then changed my mind when the receptionist gave me a funny look. “On second thought, I will use your restroom,” I said, feeling pressured to accept her offer. The young woman nodded and led me down the hall.

But I still didn’t understand what she was suggesting. Not even when I noticed a little basket of washcloths next to the sink. Afterall, Sabrina never offered washcloths. I used the few moments of privacy to catch my breath, pick some lint off my jacket and wash my . . . hands, drying them off on on of the little towels from the basket.

I’d just started reading an Vanity Fair article about Julia Roberts when A walked up and introduced herself as my aesthetician. I liked her right away. Her hair was styled into a short, angular cut that accentuated her friendly face. She was small, but muscular, with a solid handshake and a warm smile–my kind of girl. Still not knowing quite what to expect, I followed her into one of the private rooms.

“So you’re here for eyebrows and a Brazilian,” A said.

In my mind, I heard her say “eyebrows,” but the Brazilian part didn’t really register. Back in the days with Sabrina, she never called waxing by any particular name. If she did, I missed it, perhaps because, while Sabrina’s English was fine, she still had a choppy Vietnamese accent. I was still mildly distracted, privately wondering how far the sweat rings under my arms had spread, so I just nodded.

“We’ll do the eyebrows first,” A said.

I gave her a thumbs up and climbed on the table.

I’m not very good with the whole pleasure thing. Spas, weekend getaways with girlfriends, spur of the moment trips with W? Never happens. I always tell myself I can’t spare the time or can’t justify the expense. Three years ago, W gave me a gift certificate for a luxury spa here in the city and it took me eighteen months to book a massage. The other day, I came across the gift certificate in my nightstand drawer and saw that I still have a $300 credit.

In our old neighborhood, I’d occassionally get waxed by Sabrina, a petite Vietnamese chick who was no-nonsense. We’d chat for a moment and the she’d get to work. Twenty-five bucks and a generous tip later, my eyebrows had a nice little curve to them that made me look pleasantly amused by it all, and my bikini area was so surprisingly smooth, that for days afterwards, I’d walk around the house with my hands in my pants just to double check. I was like a kindergarten boy, for God sakes, happily feeling around to make sure everything was in place. But going to see Sabrina at her shop in the strip mall was like getting your oil changed: practical, fairly inexpensive, and not particularly painful if you did it often enough.

Let me tell you . . . the fancy little salon I just went to was a whole ‘nother ball game . . .

The Holidays are always tough for me. Christmas shopping, holiday parties, year-end activities at the kids’ school–it’s all great, but it’s a pretty constant grind from Thanksgiving to New Years, and I don’t have much time to write. Eight weeks is a long time to be away from anything, especially a novel. I loose the rhythm and momentum of the story and the narrative voice grows more faint with every passing day. By the first week in January, when school finally resumes and the Christmas tree is out at the curb, I’m usually pretty grumpy. I feel taxed to the limit and resentful for not having had any quiet, thinking time.

So this year, I decided to change things. I made an appointment at a posh little skin salon here in the city. My idea was to give myself a reward for all the work I’ve put in so far, a little treat to help me cross the holiday finish line.

I decided to do a little waxing.

Not too long ago, I had a conversation with my good friend D who revealed that she’d recently done a bit of waxing herself. Not just a little. Quite a lot, actually. She had all but the thinnest wisp of pubic hair removed and couldn’t stop marveling at the results. Every time she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her. “I look down at myself and think, ‘that’s not mine,’” she confessed. “That belongs to someone else.” But something about having all that skin exposed made D feel more sensual, sexier and more daring. She and her husband are having more sex than they’ve had in years.

I have to confess that I’ve had waxing on my mind for some time now. Every time I’m in the locker room at the gym, I seem to notice all the women who are . . . well . . . “neater” down there. I look at them (although not too closely) and compare their groomed little bushes to my own unruly muff complete with rogue strands creeping toward my inner thigh, and feel sort of sick to my stomach for not taking better care of myself. I guess it’s sort of like getting a pedicure or wearing fancy lingerie: It’s a small thing, and hardly anyone sees it, but it makes a HUGE difference.

So when I called the salon for my appointment, I told the receptionist I wanted my eyebrows done and then, just before she hung up, added that I might as well go for a bikini wax too.

“How long has it been since your last waxing?” she asked, in a perky twenty-something voice.

I hesitated. “Let me think.” In my mind, I knew it had been years. More than five years, to be exact. But I couldn’t tell her that. She’d never let me in the door. “Let’s just say it’s been a very, very long time.”

Welcome to My Life From Scratch, a blog about my experience as a woman, a writer, and a parent.

My Life From Scratch is about my struggle to bring the best ingredients–honesty, authenticity, integrity and humor–to my daily life. I’ve lived too much of my adulthood out of a box, pre-mixed and pre-measured, using other people’s recipes. It’s taken a while, but I’ve finally figured out that the seemingly quick, easy, canned version of life doesn’t work for me.

For years, I longed to be a writer, but hid inside a job I hated. It was only when I realized how much time I’d wasted, more than a decade, that I finally quit and decided to write my way into a new life. But it wasn’t easy. Writing groups, night classes, workshops, conferences and an MFA later, all while raising my two daughters and trying to hold my marriage together, I’m finding my way.

Most of the time, creating my life from scratch isn’t pretty. I’m in the kitchen hoisting fifty-pound bags of flour, grinding every spice and herb, hauling out every pot, pan, and utensil I can find. I’m kneading, basting, stirring and chopping through my days, praying I won’t burn down the house. If I’m lucky, when I’m at my best, I make something that tastes delicious, and if it looks good too, I’m especially fortunate.

In the past, I tried to make it all seem easy and effortless. I accepted compliments and betrayed my hard work. I didn’t want to bring folks back into my sloppy kitchen where they could see the cluttered counters, the heap of dishes in the sink, and the scraps of food on the floor. But no more.

In this blog, I’m telling it like it is, nasty bits and all. I’m inviting you into the kitchen of my life. So grab a beer from the fridge and pull up a stool.