You Know It's Bad When Your Cosmetologist Starts to Cry...

So I decided to 'treat' myself to a Brazilian wax yesterday. 

Don't ask me why-it just seemed like a good idea at the time. I've been having regular manicures since November and having my hair highlighted since January. It seemed like the next logical step, no? The pain itself really wasn't unbearable, but then again that could have had something to do with the shot of tequila I took beforehand. It was medicinal. Truly. And gross. Tequila only belongs in a margarita. I warned the cosmetologist ahead of time about the incident in which my mother, while waxing my upper lip, ripped the top layer of skin off my lip. At 7:45 AM on a school day. And she made me go to school anyway. In junior high. A true Southern Belle, I have sensitive and delicate skin after all. There was The Great Microdermabrasion/Salycic Acid Incident of 2004 prior to my friendgirl Charla's wedding which resulted in my face looking like a puffy mutant peeling tomato for two weeks. I clashed with my lovely seafoam green bridesmaid dress. Things were progressing along nicely until...a bit of skin near my lady bits ripped. Oh dear goddess, if I ever needed validation in my thoughts that I don't believe in natural childbirth, I now have it. Owie, ow, ow. Nothing bonds two people like examining one's hoo hoo with a mirror and trying to decide if the hydrogen peroxide will actually prevent infection or just sting like h*ll. Answer-affirmative to the latter, but still unknown as to the former. In fact, Cosmetologist brought me a lovely bouquet of daffodils today. In a Patron bottle-slash-vase. Your sympathy is greatly appreciated. Because, really? This is one of those things that would only happen to me.