The Truth About GiGi: The Shopping Detective

PARENTAL WARNING: The content of this blog is somewhat raunchy and is probably not suitable for children under the age of 13.

It seems like I have pink bubble gum in my crotch. Seems is the operative word here, because it is not really bubble gum, it just looks and feels like it. Today, with a silent sigh of 'Thank heavens for little girls' I applied a product called GiGi Creme Wax. The confessions are going to be, uh, sticky.

I do not have a lover. During my many years of living in France, a few times a year I plunked down 15 euros, and received what is called 'la piste' -- a bikini wax that left behind a landing strip. In Brazil they take it all off; in France, they leave you a little tuft or two. And the price is modest because this is a normal service. I am a high maintenance woman. I like a simple look, no matter what in takes to achieve it.

In the U.S., I have been paying $35 for the wax and then $5 tip for a similar wax-on-wax-off. So now, as I head to Asia in August, where I promise to wear a bathing suit and swim laps every day, I decided it was time to try this myself...and save money. If the U.S. government is giving cash for clunkers, I figured the times were ripe to some work on the chassis.

I went to Sally's, I spent a half hour studying the products and, with tips from other women ringing in my brain, I bought products that most resembled the ones I was used to in France and here in Texas. There was a kit of microwave wax and assorted other sample sized products that screamed 'try me'. For $18, I calculated the savings and dove in-- which does not, I repeat not, make me a muff diver.

This morning was the day, so I used a magnifying glass to read the little brochure, I examined all the little products and thought them odd-- concealer for your crotch? Excuse me? I zapped the Bazooka pink goop in my microwave and then I slathered it on. The first rip was not painful enough nor fruitful enough. I zapped the wax to a creamier consistency, more like yoghurt.

I attempted three different depilatory actions on three diverse portions of a very small area. I was more interested in the top than the sides, and I was terrified of serious consequences if there were any dripping or smudging on the sides, so I stayed in the valley of the V in my upper thighs.

Since I do not care to be too graphic, nor have I looked up the word hematoma in my medical dictionary, I will spare you a description of the immediate results and the dime sized purple splatters of veins or skin or bruisemarks.

There was some wax removal creme in the kit; I applied it. Not much improvement. I took a shower and ruined two brand new, expensive kind of razors -- totally clogged 'em with bubble gum. I got out of the shower, didn't dare dry off as I feared towel fuzz would add to the density of the remaining forest, and went directly for nail polish remover.

Unfortunately, I do not have acetone as is easily acquired in Europe and would surely have solved the problem. Nail polish remover just managed to ruin my manicure (another $20 down the tubes... so the speak)and get some of the bubble gum smeared around more evenly. An attack with a petite pair of scissors did not help enormously.

Then I had to choose a pair of knickers that I could abandon or cut away from me if needed and a pair of teflon lined jeans. We won't even discuss the still-burning sensation of have from the acetone that got away.

I happened to be watching The View last week, when one of the hosts, Sherry, went for a wax and was shocked to find she had been booked for a Brazilian. "I'm a grown woman" she kept screaming, "and I look like a little girl now."

God knows I remember how I longed to have pubic hair; how proud I was when it finally burst onto the scene. Now I spend a lot of time and money trying to get rid of it or tame it. I know that some women actually have laser removal, but I know that is dumb. I had a total Brazilian once and all I can say is there are places that Botox cannot go and middle aged women do not want to be bald, if they can help it.

So here it is, Sunday afternoon. I know another journalist in San Antonio, she goes by the name Heloise, although the original Heloise was her mother. I'm wondering if I can call her and see if she has any helpful hints for this problem.