I recently got a bikini wax for the first time at 22 years old. I'm the outlier among my friends and coworkers (yes, pubic grooming is run-of-the-mill conversation in this office), who are usually
Brazilianed-bare or lasered smooth, but I’ve been single for over a year and the occasional shave has been enough for me. Until now. I started a series for the site dedicated to first-time beauty experiences (so far, I got my brows threaded and an oily rubdown), which has forced me to take stock of everything to which I haven't yet subjected my face, body, or hair. And so, a bikini-wax appointment was made at the most luxurious spot I could imagine to get hot wax near my labia: the Caudalíe Vinotherapie Spa at the Plaza Hotel. After work, I headed to the bustling corner in Midtown where the storied hotel stands. It was bitterly cold out and I was thrilled to be in a warm, Cabernet-painted room filled with chic Caudalíe products — even if I was spread-eagle in crunchy paper panties. Four strips of wax and a bit of tweezing later, I lifted up my head to ask, "That's it?!" I wouldn't even call the experience painful; in fact, the end was so nice (Who knew skin this soft was hiding under that coarse hair?) that the means to it was practically enjoyable. Robe on, I headed to the relaxation room for a short mental break before hitting the frigid streets. I nibbled on grapes, sipped tea, and checked my email while trying to keep my hands off my smooth bikini line in semi-public territory. Then, I headed out the glass doors and to the elevators. A large, strong-looking man was blocking one elevator, so I politely asked him to move. He refused, telling me the elevator was out of service and I needed to step back. Now, I'd just gone from a long day at work to a spa appointment that left me ready for bed, so I was in no mood, thank-you-very-much. I moved around him and pressed the button again for the second elevator right before another stocky man came to intercept me and repeat the same thing. I obeyed, but not without a little huffing and eye-rolling. Then, there was some commotion that made me look up from my phone. When I did, I locked eyes with none other than Hillary. Rodham. Clinton. Only, I was too absorbed in myself at the moment, so my brain didn't quite process what was happening. It took me a full minute to grasp what had just happened. Was that really her? Definitely. No one has hair like that. What is she doing here? Was she on her way to the spa, perhaps to heal her broken heart? Maybe she's meeting Huma for tea? God, she looks great. Love that orangey-red pantsuit. Why didn't I smile, damn it?!
Had I been more prepared, I would have asked her for a selfie to live on all my social media accounts until the end of time and delivered a rambling thank-you-for-everything monologue, but she was nowhere to be found by the time I got it together. One thing's for certain, though: I'll be getting waxed at Caudalíe far more frequently now, in the hopes of spotting HRC again. After all, it's a hell of a lot easier than searching the woods.
Brazilianed-bare or lasered smooth, but I’ve been single for over a year and the occasional shave has been enough for me. Until now. I started a series for the site dedicated to first-time beauty experiences (so far, I got my brows threaded and an oily rubdown), which has forced me to take stock of everything to which I haven't yet subjected my face, body, or hair. And so, a bikini-wax appointment was made at the most luxurious spot I could imagine to get hot wax near my labia: the Caudalíe Vinotherapie Spa at the Plaza Hotel. After work, I headed to the bustling corner in Midtown where the storied hotel stands. It was bitterly cold out and I was thrilled to be in a warm, Cabernet-painted room filled with chic Caudalíe products — even if I was spread-eagle in crunchy paper panties. Four strips of wax and a bit of tweezing later, I lifted up my head to ask, "That's it?!" I wouldn't even call the experience painful; in fact, the end was so nice (Who knew skin this soft was hiding under that coarse hair?) that the means to it was practically enjoyable. Robe on, I headed to the relaxation room for a short mental break before hitting the frigid streets. I nibbled on grapes, sipped tea, and checked my email while trying to keep my hands off my smooth bikini line in semi-public territory. Then, I headed out the glass doors and to the elevators. A large, strong-looking man was blocking one elevator, so I politely asked him to move. He refused, telling me the elevator was out of service and I needed to step back. Now, I'd just gone from a long day at work to a spa appointment that left me ready for bed, so I was in no mood, thank-you-very-much. I moved around him and pressed the button again for the second elevator right before another stocky man came to intercept me and repeat the same thing. I obeyed, but not without a little huffing and eye-rolling. Then, there was some commotion that made me look up from my phone. When I did, I locked eyes with none other than Hillary. Rodham. Clinton. Only, I was too absorbed in myself at the moment, so my brain didn't quite process what was happening. It took me a full minute to grasp what had just happened. Was that really her? Definitely. No one has hair like that. What is she doing here? Was she on her way to the spa, perhaps to heal her broken heart? Maybe she's meeting Huma for tea? God, she looks great. Love that orangey-red pantsuit. Why didn't I smile, damn it?!
Had I been more prepared, I would have asked her for a selfie to live on all my social media accounts until the end of time and delivered a rambling thank-you-for-everything monologue, but she was nowhere to be found by the time I got it together. One thing's for certain, though: I'll be getting waxed at Caudalíe far more frequently now, in the hopes of spotting HRC again. After all, it's a hell of a lot easier than searching the woods.