Not for the squeamish

Please dont continue reading if there are things about me that you dont want to know. For instance, Iron Chef Chicago should not continue reading.

This was just so bizarre that I had to blog about it, and you know me, poor personal boundaries. Anyway here goes. So given the style and length of our honeymoon, I have decided to get laser hair removal for my arm pits and my bikini area. That and it would kick ass to not have to shave ever again. Another friend of mine is getting it done as well so I decided to go to the same salon she is, which is luckily across the street from an Ann Sathers. Mmmm. Anyway, to paint a picture, I am getting this done from a gay guy half my height named Dik. Of course I am.


Since I didnt know what kind of condition my hair should be in when I arrived, I had been letting things go. I wasnt sure what was optimal and that scenario seemed like a nice default choice. So he does my underarms first. It was a little more painful than I expected (as the test run didnt really hurt at all), but no big deal. So then its time for the bikini area. Even now my mind cant wrap just how bizarre it all got. He was down there, just trimming away and chatting about the freaks that have come in. All the while he has an enormous spot light on my completely naked crotch, taking time to occasionally back away and gauge just how even everything is. Remember the Brady Bunch episode where the movie director was scouting Mrs Brady in the parking lot and using his hands to create a framing effect? It was kinda like that.

All in all, I am actually a bit surprised as just how well I took the whole thing in stride. You just dont know how you are going to react to a complete stranger shaving your privates until it happens. Apparently, I find it mildly bizarre. Who knew?

That should fill your TMI quota for the week. You are welcome.