It is nearing that time of the cycle when I need to make hair appointments. Not for the unsightly mess that is atop my head, but for other regions. Regular follicular maintenance is one unexpected consequence of acquiring a new beau - the need to "keep myself neat and tidy" becomes an onerous task, but necessary nonetheless.

A few years ago, whilst still seeing N, I decided to surprise him for St Valentine's Day with a Brazillian wax - me, not him, that is. I believe at this time, the concept of Brazillian waxes in this country, or at least in my home city, were still in their infancy. So finding a salon willing to perform this procedure was a little challenging. I perused my locale and found an establishment that proudly declared them "experts" in the art. So up I fronted for my first ever Brazillian wax.

Now I have had MANY bikini waxes in my life, but never decided to completely denude the area. So this was somewhat of a turning point in my life. I was willing to pay premium price for a quality service. Unfortunately, this was not to be a happy experience - but certainly memorable.

I entered the establishment, which appeared to be a rather poor state. There were boxes piled around the "treatment" room, and a general state of dishevelment. My therapist, whose name I have blocked out due to trauma, handed me a packet of something and asked me to change into the proffered item. It turned out to be a pair of disposable underpants - very attractive. I climbed atop the bed, and waited for her to return.

On entering the room, she immediately whisked the paper-pants aside to reveal her workspace, which she took to with great vigour. She began manouevring my legs in all manner of positions to reach any and all hairs that dared to lurk near my pubic region. She was quite adept at ignoring my grimaces of both pain and some embarrassment. Being straight, I am not used to having a woman in very close proximity, let alone examining my nether regions. It was more than a little confronting.

This alone, would have been disturbing, but the piece-de-resistance came when she decided to take to my pubic mound with tweezers to fine-tune the hair removal process. She reached for a set of tweezers that were suspended in some sort of liquid - it resembled window-cleaner, but I prayed it possessed some sort of antiseptic properties. But these proved to be inadequate for her purposes. So she endeavoured to find a pair which would prove satisfactory. It was at this point that she reached into her handbag (handily located nearby), and retrieved a favourite set of tweezers, proceeded to wipe them on her denim skirt, and plunge headforth into my near-vulvul regions.

I nearly felt sick, and prayed to any and all Gods that would have me that no infection would be-fall me.

Needless to say, I survived the experience, vulva in tact, but it took a while to brave the Brazillian experience again. Not long after this experience, I passed by the window of the establishment, to find that they had long since closed down - perhaps due to health regulations I am not sure!?

As a side note, N LOVED the wax. We went out for dinner, and over the meal I explained what I had had done. We left rather quickly at that point.