Boracay Beach, Philippines Blog Three.
Pussy1: Slang for vulva—because technically, anatomically, vagina is only the inside bits.
And the next thing I know, there’s another Filipino female (I hope) checking out my Sasquatch Snatch.
Sasquatch Snatch: AJ slang for hair pie, which be regular redneck slang for hairy va-jay-jay, which is simple slang for uncoiffed-overgrown-I’ve-been-single-and-celibate-for-over-a-year cookie—which is just sad.
Let’s backtrack a smidge to September: Back in Canada when the weather turned autumn cool—by my standards, this is any temperature under 25 degrees Celsius—I pulled out the jeans and skipped shaving my legs and nether regions. (There are pluses to celibate singlehood.)
My hair grows fast so, by the time I’d arrived in the Philippines, I was wearing a woolly layer under my winter attire.
There’s I don’t care, Mr. Right doesn’t exist in this location and I’m not looking, anyway! (Sideways glance.)
And then there’s You’re scaring the Asian children, Anna.
Fine. I relent. I’ll get de-haired, already.
I wander down The Strip singsong-saying No thank youuu to the multiple offers of massages until I get to a group of girls that feels right. I have no idea why this group of aestheticians feels righter than the rest. It could be that I’m tired of walking and declining and in need of a rest.
I ask one of the ladies if they do waxing.
Yes, ma’aaaam.
I nod and follow her down the beach a ways and up a puddled, winding, smelly alley. She could be taking me anywhere, but I’m not nervous. It’s daylight and to my vast, paranoid knowledge, serial killers are rarely females nor do they work in gangs or partnerships. (Then again, this is Asia, things could be different here.) The worst thing likely to happen is I’ll end up on the Internet on some Hairy Taco Tourist porn site.
Hey, maybe I’ll get some!
No such luck.
We arrive at an unmarked steep, narrow, rickety staircase and up up up we go. Not long after, we go up up up another staircase to an open air room with high ceilings and numerous massage tables. The room is partitioned into smaller rooms by sheer scarves clothes-pinned to twine strung from wall to wall.
I can hear the muffled sounds of activity—dogs, motocross, chatter—wafting up from the alley and beyond. Om chanting music in the background drones the sounds out and provides a pleasant, soothing atmosphere. The scarves billow in the light breeze. If I wasn’t about to have my hairs ripped out by their roots, this might be relaxing.
It’s a full moon tonight, meaning—I’m riding the cotton pony. (My menstrual cycle follows the moon, as it does for many women who are not on birth control. This blog is highly educational for men, wouldn’t you agree?)
Anyway, I remove my shorts and put them on the table next to the one I’m about to get on. We’re the only ones up here.
Aside from my rebellion to the Brazilian pubic hair waxing style (refer to Bush Waxing blog), I don’t feel like having my white mouse-tail-cotton-pony string hanging (or falling) out of the brush and surprising the poor girl.
The G-string remains on.
Though, soon enough there’s a Why bother? element.
The aesthetician starts with my va-jay-jay area. She carefully applies the warm wax to the inner thigh area and then applies the cotton strips. She has to pick pick pick at the edge of the strips to get a grip grip grrrip, which is the most painful part of the procedure because the picking area still has hair determinedly attached to my flesh yet is also coated in wax. (Women will get this.) But otherwise, all else is as expected.
Shortly after, another aesthetician shows up. She’s older, maybe my age, with a chic bob and excellent English.
Cut to next scene: I’m lying on my back with legs spread out in froggy position as the two of them manoeuvre my why-bother undies—we don’t want to get wax on them—as they get closer and closer to my lady bits.
No Brazilian, I reconfirm.
You should try it. You might like it. The one says in perfect English.
Not today, sorry. (So Canadian.)
It’s our pleasure, she says, and I’m not certain she’s misconstruing her meaning.
(Awkward laugh.)
I open my eyes and notice there’s now another aesthetician hovering over my soon-to-be-gone lady-garden. Where’d she come from??
Her hands are clasped behind her back as she leans over me. She smiles sweetly and briefly at me then resumes her concentrated attention to my splayed out bearded clam (somewhat still covered by my VS panties). She says something in what I assume is the local dialect to the others. I close my eyes.
It’s been over an hour, and they’re still thoroughly working through my sprout patch, now with tweezers. Damn thorough, I say.
Meanwhile, I’m having a mental conversation with myself:
It’s not like they’ve never seen a redhead before.
Everyone has a vagina.
Well, not men or Lady-boys, but maybe some have them now.
Then are they still considered Lady-boys or are they now “formerly known as Lady-boys”?
My thoughts are interrupted by Chic Bob: We don’t see many redheads.
Startled, I say, Oh. Not sure how else to respond.
Chic Bob: The hair is thicker. More stubborn. Awesome. Whisker pubes. I’m a real keeper.
Sorry, I say.
I take a deep breath, try to relax, listen to more chatter. I’m pretty sure I hear a fourth voice in the mix, but I’m afraid to open my eyes to check. When they’re finally finished weed-whacking my bush area, they move on to my legs. I hear two voices chitchatting as they recede into the background and then noisily clamp down the stairs—How’d they get up here so stealthfully? Now I know there were (at least) four people in attendance at this public (pubic) event because two sets of hands are still stripping hair off my legs—which takes all of twenty minutes at most.
When the waxing is complete, they rub oil on my legs and outer upper inner thigh area to get any leftover wax off.
Chic Bob says, You should get a double massage.
Nervously, I ask, What’s that?
Is it my imagination that tells me her hand is lingering near my nethers as she replies, Two sets of hands massaging you at the same time.
With increasing nervousness and heartbeat, I simply squeak out, Oh—and swallow hard.
(Twitch twitch. Blink blink … Awkward laugh.)
Note: I later learned via Facebook friends that most non-Asian women have coarser hair and that one can catch STDs getting waxed unhygienically. Like double dipping the (wax) stick. Great, now I’m paranoid that I’ll come back with an STD acquired as my world travels’ souvenir which would really suck blistered balls. For this, I put a clamp on my crotch for over a year? Oy.
What have I (re)learned? Aestheticians need love, too? No. Reality check: Single women (and probably not single) can come to the Philippines and also get the happy ending. At least the Filipinos aren’t sexist.
Homework: Pray. Pray I didn’t catch cooties of the cookie. (Note: I waited over a week to post this so I could declare that the cookie coast is clear, if tender.) From now on, no more spa waxing; if I’m getting diseased, it’ll be the old-fashioned way, damn it—with the happy ending!
Pussy1: Normally, I only use this word with my lov’ahhh. Buuuut, since My Little Mom (MLM) innocently used it in a conversation about…well, that doesn’t matter—Lord knows where MLM learned the slang word, not from me!—I figure I can get away with using it sparingly in this blog. Also, I’d recently visited with a friend of MLM’s, a 96-year-young feisty lady who referred to lady bits as a twat. So there you have it. (Who knew the elderly could be so vulgar? Oh my.)
