The Bikini Wax. Let's discuss, shall we?

Part of the reason for my extended blog hiatus was a writer’s retreat in Florida over the Fourth of July weekend. Karen Kendall, Joanna Novins and I decided to hunker down and do some power-writing. Karen said that not only did she have a pool, but that she was having a Fourth of July BBQ for an assortment of guests.

Well, I don’t know about your world, but in my world, Florida + Fourth of July + swimming pool = bikini. And inevitably, the bikini must lead us to consideration of The Bikini Wax and that age-old question:

To Brazilian or not to Brazilian?

Okay, easy question. Let’s not get excited. I’m certainly not getting a Brazilian for Karen and Joanna, no matter how much I like them, nor, frankly, for a bunch of strange men-guests (I say strange, in the sense of stranger, not in the sense of odd.) even if they do happen to be super-nice and Peruvian.

But it’s the sort of thing that one really needs to keep up on, if you understand what I’m saying, because it can get away from you.

So when my esthetician at Pink Cheeks said, as she’s ripping hair off my body with wax to the point where I’m practically blacking out, “I don’t understand how you girls can leave it this long,” I really shouldn’t have been surprised.

It was the same reaction the esthetician at The Heritage in Christchurch, New Zealand had when I showed up for a waxing after six months in Antarctica. And I wanted to tell her that it didn't matter what she said about it, because nothing could possibly make me let the Antarctic barber who gave the National Guardsmen buzzcut touch-ups, touch me up. I'm sure you can see my point of view.

Let's face it. I’m busy. I don’t have time to be running around constantly waxing things. And it’s not cheap. You’d think we’d be well on our way to evolving into completely hairless beings, but I guess since this is primarily a matter of female concern, it’s low priority behind the men wanting to evolve into beings with larger penises and, for that matter, more hair on their heads.

The reason I feel I can discuss this sort of thing with you, my friends, is because beautification, in all of its forms, is so common here in Los Angeles that there is no longer any sense of inappropriateness: “Who did your boobs?” “Nice veneers, man!” “I’ve got to get a colonic this week. I feel toxic. Even after all of that celery juice.”

In fact, last month, someone invited me to share a serving, if you will, of Botox shots. Somehow, they were getting a special deal (inhale sharply) on this service from Dr. 90210 (Oh, he’s good. You want a doctor who is so obsessed with treating his patients properly that he’s willing to ignore his family. Seriously, that’s the kind of doctor you want. Dedicated. So, exhale.)

Of course, if it got my book cover on TV, I might allow a reality TV star to inject botulism germs into my face, sure. But since it wasn’t going to be televised, I figured I’d pass. (And then I’m thinking, do I need Botox? Is that what she’s saying? I pad off to the bathroom mirror and stare at my face from several different angles and end up not getting much writing done that day.)

Anyway, if you find yourself in L.A. in need of a wax, I definitely recommend this place on Ventura. My esthetician (for god’s sakes, can we just say, “waxer?”) did an amazing job. And besides, if it’s good enough for Pamela Anderson, it’s good enough for me=>

From a April 2003 Los Angeles Magazine article by Tamar Brott about my waxing salon, Pink Cheeks, which was supposedly the first salon in L.A. to go where waxing salons had not gone before. They invented the "The Playboy":

...Cindee Esser-Thorin, whose motto is "Where there's hair, we're there," never advertised the Playboy nor was it her idea in the first place. But she enjoys telling the story of its creation, which, as in all satisfying creation stories, can be pinpointed to one particular moment.

That is the moment Pamela Anderson came in and said, "Cindee?" and Cindee said, "What?" and Pamela said, "Can you wax my lips?"

Back then Anderson was still the "Tool Time Girl" on Home Improvement and Pink Cheeks was primarily a facial salon, whose name was meant to signify youth and good health, that only did the occasional bikini wax.

Esser-Thorin was understandably horrified. "I said, `Your lips? On your hoochie?'" she recalls as if it were yesterday. "And Pamela goes, `Uh-huh!' and I go, `Oh, Pamela, no way! That's going to hurt, sweetie.' And she goes, `Please, I'm so tired of shaving.' And I said, `No,' and she goes, `Please!'

So I waxed her there, and it was beautiful! This nice little V in front with her lips clean. And then she goes, `Cindee?' And I go, `What?' And she goes, `Will you wax my butt?' I said, `Your butt? Your winker?' And she said, `Yeah,' and I said, `Oh my God, whatever!'

So I flipped her over on her hands and knees and slapped her little winker with wax, and--yank, yank--she was clean as a whistle. And it was like, `Oh my gosh, girlie, you're on to something.'"

Oh my God, whatever! Sometimes I really love L.A.