Brazilian Superstar

My clients often ask if I sugar myself. My response is invariably "yes, the legs are easy, the underarms are harder than hell-especially my right one-and I do a basic bikini. I don't do a Brazilian on myself," I emphasize. "Of course not," is the typical reply back, to which I respond with the story of a friend who does do that. "Oh my god" they gasp. "I know," I say, "but she takes pole dancing classes." As if that somehow explains it.

The need for emphasis is twofold. First off, I feel like I need some sort of disclaimer. I'm usually giving a Brazilian, my most popular service, and grasping for some way to say: I don't do this to myself, I only do this to you. Second, in my book, if you can sugar yourself a Brazilian then you're a rockstar. Sugaring is an art. You can sugar people, but be really basic in your abilities. You can also be quite proficient, totally  able to do most anything on people. It is in this latter category that I have felt solidly placed for a while. I never really aspired to be more--to be a rockstar. But as of today I officially am. I have crossed the threshold and stepped into the land of the Supreme Sugarista. I have sugared myself a Brazilian.

I have to admit, Brazilians have not always been my personal choice. I have always felt a bit awkward about that because I give so many other women Brazilians that I feel like I should also be doing the same thing. Kinda like most midwives have given birth. There's a shared experience that you can't have without having had the experience. And I did do it. Like ten years ago. Once. And it wasn't my thing and so I've continued on in life feeling slightly guilty and as if I'm somehow misrepresenting myself every single time I do a Brazilian.

I'd like to say that the impetus for the self-Brazilian was this desire for solidarity. But that would be a lie. My boyfriend asked me to. I think half-jokingly, but it was like the millionth time he'd brought it up so I thought hell, why not?

OH MY GOD. It is so hard to do. The pole dancing as explanation for self-Brazilian makes perfect sense. I had to contort my body in uncomfortable ways, putting legs up on chairs while trying to look in poorly placed mirrors. And putting on lots and lots of powder. And then trying to flick off the sugar at odd angles. You can imagine. I was winded by the time I finished, which isn't that surprising considering the only exercise I've had in years is a once weekly yoga class that is neither hot nor vinyasa.

And the pain. By the time I got to the triangle of death at the end, I was having serious doubts that I could actually finish. Ones body is wired, generally speaking, to not self-inflict harm. But somehow I managed to do so anyways. Repeatedly. And while I didn't take the mag light to myself like I do to my clients, I did a pretty damn good job anyways. And then felt totally dazed and like I'd just finished a marathon. Like a rockstar.

The end result is a sense of solidarity. I now have a much more intimate relationship with the pain my clients experience. And also with the reason that they keep coming back: somehow, after the pain is gone, that smoothness feels worth it.