So, let's go for it.

She smiled the same vaguely condescending smile my doctor used when diagnosing me with concussion. Indeed, the whole experience to this point felt very much like a trip to the doctor's office, save for the part with the hot wax and violent hair removal. I'm pretty sure that lies firmly on the the “harm” side of the Hippocratic oath.

She started with a traditional bikini waxing, using cotton strips to remove the hair from my groins and upper thighs. I had braced myself for blinding agony, so I was pleasantly surprised that the procedure was quick and easy. I even smiled a little.

Not so bad, I told her.

“No, this part not so bad. Lips is the worst. Very sensitive.”

Silly me, I thought she was making a thinly veiled reference to my blossoming mustache. Half an hour later, I realized she meant another set of lips entirely. For this area, the waxist used a self-hardening wax that she said was more gentle on the skin. I'm going to take her word for it because I'd like to think there was a reason not rooted in pure sadism.
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