Last summer I wrote a blog post about thirty of the crazy people and issues that my co-workers and I deal with on a daily basis while working as Estheticians.

You can read that, here.

Oh, but my darlings.

The party doesn’t stop at thirty.

With sunny weather approaching, everyone is crawling out of hibernation and into the spa for um… “spring cleaning,” let’s call it. Busy season has officially begun, and with it, a vast array of new stories to tell.

Like I did in my other post, I have to preface by saying that this is not at all intended to be an insult to my clients as a whole. I get to see and talk to (and rip hair out of) tons of really cool people. So many of them whom I’ve been seeing for almost two years now, and would totally consider to be a friend.

Let me also reiterate that I am literally the biggest pansy in the world when it comes to getting a brazilian and my friends will tell you that when they’ve tried to wax or sugar me, it’s a fucking ZOO. Straight-jacket required.

…which is why I decided to go the more permanent route and just get that shit lasered, which has been a circus in it’s own right and you can read about that little adventure here, if you like.

All that being said, when you perform around twenty brazilian waxes a day, you’re bound to run into a nightmare at some point.

Or thirty.

So with the help of a couple of my (saintly) co-workers, I’ve compiled another list of experiences/people/issues, of which I’m not quite sure are more horrifying, hilarious, or just plain disturbing.

You be the judge.

Thirty MORE People You Meet on the Waxing Table

The Over-Apologizer – “I’m sooo so sorry, omg I’m sorry I’m such a baby I just can’t even handle this, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. OMG my feet probably smell too!!! Ugh, I should’ve left my socks on! How embarrassing! Omg I’m sweating so bad I’m so sorry!!! HAHAHA I can’t stop twitching omg so sorry about all of this. I can’t believe you do this all day! You really do this all day? I’m SO sorry you have to look at vaginas all day. Omg it’s over? Already? I’m so sorry I just completely freaked out for nothing.”

No worries, sweets, but if you’re really that sorry, you should just slip me an extra twenty because nothing says I’m sorry quite like money.

The Nail Salon Horror Story – These girls come in out of desperation, after nearly having their vagina’s torn to pieces from someone who most likely doesn’t even have a license to DO brazilians.

“Well, I mean, I went to this place by the university because all the sorority girls go there and it’s super cheap, like 20 bucks, you know? And so anyways I get there and the lady doesn’t speak any English so I don’t really know what’s going on and then she starts cutting wax strips from the sheet I’m laying on!! And there’s dried up wax like ALL over the wax pot and everything looks dirty and then she’s just like, POURING wax on me and it’s so hot I swear she burned my cooch, and she was like, double dipping the wax stick, which is super unsanitary, right?? Anyway it was like literally the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I. Wanted. To. Die. 

Let this poor girl be a lesson for all you cheapskates out there. The vagina is not an area of your body to be frugal with.

Unless coochie diseases are something you’re into.

The Porn Voice – The noises you are making when I rip your hair out are very reminiscent of naughty movies. Not that I have ever seen said movies but I have definitely read Fifty Shades of Grey cover to cover (don’t judge me, what else am I supposed to do on a solo trip to Mexico??), and I’m pretty fucking certain that you were liking this way too much.

The Texter– I really couldn’t care less if someone is on there phone. Sometimes it’s nice not feeling pressured to make small talk about Bruce Jenner’s sex change, but I can’t help feeling like she may actually be Snapchatting my hands in her lady garden to all of her friends (and hackers), which is not quite how I imagined myself getting famous.

The Pre-Colonoscopy – I really wish this didn’t have to be a Public Service Announcement, but Dear. God. If you are going in for a colonoscopy right after your brazilian, which means you are actively having to consume gallons of liquid that, you know…empties you out…well.

Don’t come in for a Brazilian.

Let me repeat myself. A waxing table does not double as a toilet.

Wrong channel, my dear. This is not Dirty Jobs.

Geez. LUH-weez.

The Astrologer – “I should probably apologize in advance for being so tensed up and cranky today. Mercury is in retrograde and it’s realllly affecting me.”

Oh, okay well I don’t really care if Mercury is in your refrigerator.

You need to stop it.

The Eyebrow Wax – “Um, so I should probably tell you that I’m suuuuuper picky about my eyebrows haha but like, really. I’ve tried several places and everyone seems to just fuck them up I don’t know why it’s so hard to just do them how I want. Oh, if you reach into my purse there I have a picture of (insert any botoxed-as-fuck celebrity name), whose eyebrows are EXACTLY how I want them so if you could just do them like that, that’d be great. But please don’t fuck them up.”

There is literally nothing scarier than a high maintenance, condescending biatch who wants an eyebrow wax.

YOU, my darling, are bona fide crazy.

BYE.

The Over-Estimator – “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck OHMYGOD wait don’t do it! Okay okay do it. Wait no I can’t I can’t I LITERALLY can’t…okay fuuuuuck just do it already!!! No WAI— Oh, that’s it? You pulled it already? Oh. Heh. Yea. It’s not that bad.” 

The Under-Estimator – “Hi, I’m a badass and I’m going to act like one and also I wore these really tight workout clothes so that you can see all my muscles and know that I lift SOOooo many weights all day erryday baby. No amount of pain can get to me.”

CRIES.

The Lost in Translation – This client speaks no English and I essentially have to play charades in order to ask if she wants to leave a triangle, landing strip, leave it bare, etc….waving, pointing, and making shapes at my own vagina.

Literally miming.

The Entightled One – (Esthetician was out sick)

“God, can’t she just come in for thirty minutes and wax me and then leave????”

You know what? That’s a super great idea, actually. How did we not think of that? Let me just call her for you right now, I’m sure she’d love to drag her puking self off the bathroom floor so that you don’t have to see someone else today who is also perfectly qualified to remove your vagina hair.

Rapunzel – I have too many other things going on to give a shit about what the situation is inside of your pants, but every once in awhile I am just at a loss for words for how amazingly long people can grow their hair-down-there. I have literally seen masses of silky, golden locks.

LOCKS! Of hair!

BRAID-ABLE hair.

Hair that looks more healthy and styled than what’s on my HEAD.

ON A VAGINA.

Dear. God.

The Leg Sugar – Not every hair-removal process involves the nether-regions, and I think most estheticians would agree that having to sugar someone’s legs is one of the most tedious and exhausting things we have to do. Whenever there’s a full leg sugar on the books, it’s a collective “Awww fuck,” directed at whichever poor girl at the spa has to perform it. If you don’t know what sugaring is, it’s an alternative to waxing (and I highly prefer it, so you should try it if you haven’t already, and then never wax again because it’s fucking amazing).

Sugaring requires a lot more physical effort on your esthetician, though, so doing your entire legs is basically like lifting weights for an hour straight. Not to say that we’re ungrateful for our new arm muscles, but sweating profusely for an hour at a job you’re supposed to look super put-together at is not that cute and you should at least consider bringing your Esthetician a cookie/latte/big mac/new car/mortgage payment…

You know.

Whatever works for you.

The Sorority Girl – Have you tried the new spray tan place? It’s amAAAAAze-ballssss. Omg I’m TOTES going to Vegas in three days. It’s gonna be hella tight haha my parents think I’m going to visit my girlfriend in Denver but fuck that!! VEGASSSS BABYYYY. I think DJ McDouche is spinning that night ugh I’m probably gonna black out hahaha OH WELL!

Like, OMG, though.

So. Tan.

The Last Appointment of the Day – If you happen to be your Esthetician’s last appointment of the day, you will literally never experience getting a faster brazilian in your entire life. I have done (high-quality) brazilians in four minutes flat. Do not even try to interrupt my flow.

The LATE Last Appointment of the Day – If you are the last appointment and are also LATE, you may as well turn your little tush around and run away as fast as you can because now you are fucking with our precious commute time, the dinner we’ve been dreaming about since 3pm, not to mention the fact that you probably didn’t even apologize for being late.

We actually want to hurt you at this point.

Sorry in advance.

The Post-Workout Sweat Machine – Riddle me this. Would you do hot yoga for and hour and then bang your sweetie-pie right after sweating profusely out of every pore on your body?

Probably not.

Because it’s gross.

So do us all a favor and don’t come get a brazilian right after that, either.

Because it’s gross.

The Gay Back Waxer – Bitch, I get these all the time. NOT phased.

The Straight Back Waxer – I’ve never been waxed and my girlfriend is forcing me to do this but I’m sure it’s no big deal I mean DUDE, I’M A GUY, right? HOLY SHIT this hurts like a motherfuckerrrrr but I REFUSE to show it so instead I will bury my face into the pillow and white-knuckle the sides of the table while incomprehensibly responding to questions between gritted teeth.

The Exaggerator– “You’re killing me. KILL-ING. ME. Your literally killing me right now. I’m going to die. You’re so damn nice, but you’re like…like…an executioner of PAIN. I literally want to cut you right now. Haha omg just kidding…BUT SERIOUSLY.”

The Stay At Home Mom – This saint of a woman is so happy to have a break from the five (lovely) little monsters causing one catastrophe after another that she really doesn’t care WHAT you’re doing to her. You could rip her coochie right open and she’d probably still fall asleep on your table.

The Submissive – “My boyfriend’s making me get waxed. Haha cute, right? I’m terrified, but I just want to make him happy.”

You listen here little lady. Tell that jerkwad of yours that he should just be happy to be down there at all.

You make HIM come in here and get waxed so that you’re not flossing your teeth with his pubes every time you want a new handbag.

The Pre-Competition Body Builder – Okay, now this poor thing needs more than I or anyone could ever give her during a thirty minute appointment. She is dehydrated as hell right before a competition, making her skin shrivel up and tighten around the hair follicles, thus making them super painful and nearly IMPOSSIBLE to get out.

Not to mention she is so HANGRY from not eating real food for three weeks that she’s eyeing the ball of pube-filled sugar like it’s candy.

Watch out for these ones. They’re feral.

The Post-“Whoopie” Waxer – You think we can’t tell that you just had sex.

Believe me.

WE CAN TELL.

The One Who Wears TOM’s – Okay. We all know by now that TOM’s shoes have this magical way of giving your feet an odor so offensive that skunks would be jealous.

I KNOW you know.

This is not a new discovery.

Please.

Don’t wear TOM’s all day and then take them off in my tiny little Cracker Jack box of a room.

Please.

The “Couple’s” Wax – Some girls get really confused with life and think that they can bring their man into the room with them so that he can watch me be all up in her downstairs.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

All I can say is that I’m not paid nearly enough to be treated like a porn star.

Not even a porn star, though. It’s more like being an actress in an amateur porn with really awful lighting.

But that’s beside the point.

Either way, NO.

No.

Sally No Shame – This girl thinks that because you wax her vajajay, you must also know everything else there is to know about vagina’s and bums and weird growths and spots, etc.

We’re not doctors.

We’re not allowed to diagnose you.

And no, I don’t know if “those things” are hemorrhoids. I’m just trying to stay away from them.

The Nudist – This lady seems to think that you need to remove every single piece of clothing on your body in order to get only about 1/20th of it waxed.

Really special.

Thank you for the anatomy lesson that I didn’t need.

The Pregnant Lady – A lot of women assume that you can’t get brazilians while pregnant.

Newsflash!

You can totally get brazilians while you’re pregnant.

My only concern is when you decide to come in on or after your due date because I’m spending the whole time praying that I don’t send you into labor while YOU spend the whole time praying that I send you into labor.

The Flatulator – Yes. That’s a word now.

I needn’t explain this.

And yes. I’m sorry for me, too.

—

And if that isn’t enough to satisfy your masochistic needs, I’ll just leave you with this gem:

“You’re gonna wax my ass, right? My boyfriend has been making fun of me because his cum keeps getting stuck in my butt hair.”

Love,

M.

I recently moved!

My new ‘hood is one that I’d always thought was kinda lame (for absolutely no good reason).

Open mouth, insert foot.

Literally the coolest neighborhood.

Ever.

I’m now only blocks away from the beach, and the best doughnut shop in Seattle.

Both are necessities.

I also now live with three boys.

My main man, my older man, and my baby…man. Baby man?

Anyway, only one of them is human, which I guess would be a good time to mention that WE GOT A PUPPY!

I can’t write about our newest addition here though because he needs his very own post, obvi, but my Instagram page is now ALL puppy pictures — I’m so sorry. Feel free to unfollow me. I totally turned into THAT girl and I hate myself for it. That being said, our new pup is fucking adorable so YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THE EXPLOSION OF CUTE.

But back to moving.

We decided to hire movers. Not because my bank account is overflowing, it’s obviously not (thanks a lot, Zara/Sephora/Urban Outfitters, you bitches. God, I love you guys so much). I was willing to fork over the dough to hire movers though, because when I moved to my last apartment, the physical and emotional trauma that hauling 16,000 boxes in and out of a uhaul took on me is the sole reason why it then took me 9 whole months to gain enough motivation to actually unpack all the boxes and decorate my place.

That’s the lie I’m telling myself anyways.

Lazy could also be a reason.

So hiring movers is awesome, except for the part where they were 3 hours late and it was Friday afternoon with rush hour traffic and they didn’t end up leaving our new place till eleven-fucking-thirty PM. BUT, I did not throw out my precious vagina-waxing shoulder from lifting and pushing and kicking and punching six million pounds of knick knacks. So it was worth it. Also, I ordered pizzas for all of us and you better believe I stuffed my sailor’s mouth full of an inappropriate amount of mozzarella grease and questionable pepperoni’s, which made the whole 3 hrs late/bad traffic/super expensive issue just float right out the window (along with all hopes of being bikini ready by our upcoming Mexico trip).

The struggle is real.

The movers DID seem to strangely “forget” to pack my box of undies, though…which was a super fun issue to come across at 6:30am the next morning.

Now about these “toggle bolts.”

Seriously. What the fuck, you guys.

Have YOU ever heard of a toggle bolt?

No.

All I want to do is hang some damn pictures in my house and apparently we have metal studs or that’s my assessment anyways from making massive holes in the wall with a power drill without any success of hanging anything because I DON’T KNOWWW.

Help me.

Mind you, my Voice of Reason (and better half) has been kindly encouraging me to talk to someone at Home Depot first but thanks to my father passing along his stubbornness to Yours Truly, I have been hell-bent on hanging these all by myself and also because HELLO, POWER TOOLS ARE FUCKING AWESOME GIVE THEM TO ME NOW.

Suffice it to say, there are more holes in my wall then there are pictures on it, and Google’s recommendation of using toggle bolts has only further enhanced the failure, but you better believe I will Tim the Tool Man Taylor my way through these major minor setbacks.

Let’s get real for a minute though, because our new house has a laundry shoot, so being frustrated at anything for very long is nearly impossible. A LAUNDRY SHOOT, PEOPLE.

Praise Jesus.

Praise him.

Also included with the house were two raised garden beds.

Let’s see: fresh veggies and fruits and flowers and cute gardening gloves and “Here, neighbors, have some fresh blueberry pie I made from berries that I planted in this earth and also please don’t hate us if when Sawyer poops in your yard.”???

YES PLEASE.

So I decided to put on my gardenin’ hat and do what I had helped my pops do every year growing up.

Turns out it’s a little harder when your dad isn’t here to swat the spiders off of you while you stand paralyzed in fear.

And also harder because peat moss/mulch/compost/lasagna-method/vermiculite/topsoil/native-soil WHY SO MANY TYPES OF DIRT-THINGS TO CHOOSE FROM????

Also. Shoveling dirt is hard. I mean, I know dirt is heavy, but Jesus Christ.

I did do it, though. And it was fun.

I did it and I heard my dad through all of it.

I heard his laugh while I swore at spiders and all the dirt and compost and peat moss I had to shovel and rake.

And I heard him telling me about all the different fruits and veggies I was planting as I dug each hole and sowed each seed.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or curse at the fact that he’s gone or take a deep breath or just lie down in the grass and be still.

So I did all of those things.

And in the end I had this. And no matter what grows (or doesn’t), we did it together.

And it felt really good. And that’s enough.

Happy Sunday.

Love,

M.