wax on, wax off

I must admit that I find the ritual of waxing quite peculiar. Don’t get me wrong. It is a ritual I engage in, but a peculiar one all the same. In the days of trapping, one would pay a handsome price for a pelt. Now we pay someone to take ours. The other sensation I find peculiar is being in a room with a stranger, completely naked from the waist down but completely clothed from the waist up. It is like the sort of juvenile, wham-bam-thank you ma’am love that happens in the back seat of a car. I would almost feel more comfortable if I were completely naked. There is more of a feeling of continuity there.
My appointment was for an extended bikini wax. I choose this service because, in my mind, it is the perfect balance between matron and porno crotch. I do not find the idea of having either very appealing. The extension takes enough away so that I feel the vestibule is accessible without taking so much away that I need to use the terminology “bacon strip” while referencing it. Perfect, no?
I walked in and went through the usual motions: discarded bottom vestiges, laid on table and placed the ceremonial towel that is yanked away almost as soon as it is set. The woman began as she does, asking me how life was, pillow talk of sorts. Then, she asks if I “wanted to follow the same lines or try a shape?”
“like what?”
“A heart.”
“A heart?”
“For Valentine’s Day.”
“Really?!”
I am still a bit befuddled by the exchange, but happy to be hairless again.