So today I went to get my bikini waxing for our trip tomorrow to south Florida- with all 3 of my kids in tow. Supermom, I know. JK. I mean, I know it's not an ideal situation, but, shit, our sitter left for college, and what was I supposed to do?! I can't let my vag resemble some south American jungle while pretending I'm still in my 20s, and attempting to dance sexily in my new crochet monkini that hides my extra lower stomach skin (thank you eBay!). I'm not exactly a seasoned drinker anymore and anything could happen. What if I slip and fall from being so intoxicated? When those legs spread, I need only a smooth, tanned, hairless bikini area making an appearance, thank you very much.
Here's how my waxing went down:
When the bikini waxer approached me, she was less than thrilled to see my tiny crew. In fact, she was downright pissed. She greeted us with, "You can't fit that stroller in there. Not through the door, not with all my equipment."
"Is it as big as this door?" I asked, pointing to the door to the restroom.
"It will be fine." Bitch.
To the rescue comes a sweet boy, who offers to let her wax me in the "couples" room. "But the lighting..." She said, still completely pissed.
"I just need the hair off my vagina, ok? Let's go." Bitch!
Left side is finished, and my kids continue to be well-behaved! Hallelujah! In light of my little angels' impeccable fancy beauty salon behavior, I am sure to shoot the waxer my best righteous glance, in the middle of apologizing - again - of course, for having to bring them all along.
Seriously?! Who does that? For real. You NEVER say how good a baby is being because it pretty much guarantees that the screaming/crying will begin in about 2.5 seconds.
Somebody knocks on the door because the music videos the Munch is showing Little Hawk (thank you princess! She's getting ice cream for dinner tonight!) on my iPhone are only briefly creating a pause in his cries. He's disrupting the calming atmosphere for the patron the next room over. Sadly, I already know what's really bothering Little Hawk: he has a poopy diaper that I decided against changing when I put him in the stroller. (MOTY) Oops.
The clearly ruffled woman waxes two more spots as quickly as possible. "I'll let you get yourself together," she says as she hurries out the door, without even attempting to lotion my sore, bright pink skin. Before she can get out, I jump up, bare-assed, to grab my beautiful, crying, son. I'm too late, though, because the Tank's empathy cries begin. Realizing we have clearly overstayed our welcome, I hurry the kiddos out the door with my button-down fly wide open. (If you know a mother who can button her jean fly one-handed while holding a crying baby, then good for you, but I'm not one of them.) I overpay for shitty service, which is confirmed in my shower tonight as I see multiple hairs still along my bikini area <tears. like legit tears>.
The moral of the story is simple: don't bring your kids to a bikini waxing.