Fictional Manhattan legend Carrie Bradshaw plays a larger role in my life than any television series star ever should. Over the years, I have dissected, analyzed, and epiphanied with her over dating qualms and relationships dilemmas. Any Bradshaw devotee knows that her dating regime involves many steps, and one is personal grooming. A girl’s got to suck it up and familiarize herself with the rituals involved with aesthetic upkeep once she hits a certain point in her life. To put my foot where my mouth is, I decided to begin regular bikini wax sessions.

According to a dear friend, who wishes that she and her intimate hair-removing procedures remain anonymous, it is plain good manners to take timely care of your hair-dispersal methods, no matter what your romantic status. Besides, she adds, they get easier over time.

The general manager of Avalon Salon and Day Spa in Greenwich Village, agrees with my friend. Said Okema Pearce, “When you wax on a regular basis, the actual hair follicle becomes weaker over time, making it easier each time you get a wax.”

Malynda Vigliotti, owner of the Boom Boom Beauty Bar in the Fashion District, recommends that you wait until your hair is about 1/4 inches thick before going in for your waxing appointment.

“A bikini wax should be done once a month because hair grows on a 28 day cycle,” she said. “You want all of the hair growth to come in at the same time.”

About to call Datta, a wax specialist whom had gotten fairly up close and personal to me three months earlier, before a trip to Costa Rica, I’m curious about any tricks of precautionary methods in attempt to make this as easy as possible. Said Vigliotti, “Take some Advils and breathe! A bikini wax hurts, but it should be done quickly. Also, it is important to not come in too close to your period because you are more sensitive then.”

Following her advice, I schedule an appointment for that week, and a few days later, I pop two Advils and squeamishly leave for the midtown salon. A subway ride and many “this-is-going-to-suck” thoughts later, I check in with the receptionist. Indian music floats throughout the waiting room from the sound system, and I notice that the other customers are also young women on lunch breaks. A quick glance around the tangerine-colored salon tells me that patrons probably don’t come here for more than waxing purposes, and a few opposite of me probably need to spend more than their lunch hour on their eyebrows alone.

After what seems like forever of torturing my panic-stricken brain with less-than-ideal outcomes of this situation, Datta calls me into her room.

“Hi, thanks for seeing me again,” I said.

Nothing. One glance into her deep, mocha-colored eyes tells me she has no idea who this girl is. How could she not remember me? She had been the most intimate relation I’d had in longer than I’d like to admit.

“You can put your pants there,” she said, pointing to a chair by the door. At her insistence, I drop trou, already thoroughly embarrassed and tempted to apologize for my general awkwardness.

She pats the table, which is lined with paper like at a doctor’s office, and I obey. Datta turns her back to prepare the first wax sticks, and I’m blinded by the florescent lights hovering over my bare body.

“What would you like today? Full or no?”

Full, as opposed to not full, is known as a Brazilian. Through several friends’ insistence, I talked myself into going for it on my way here. As student Cydney Greene* said, “I figure I am already going to go through the pain, so why not just get the whole thing done at once?”

I look up at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with Datta.

“Um, yeah, I guess all.” Did I just say that?

“Good. Any shape?”

“I don’t really care. What do most girls ask for?”

“They like triangle or strip. We do tiny strip, okay?”

She nods enthusiastically, as if we were about to embark on some exciting adventure together. I move my jittery hands from my stomach, to the table, to my stomach, and back again. Reminding myself the wax was not yet anywhere close to my vagina, I let my death grip loosen on my own fingers.

Either her innate nature as a wax technician led Datta to sense my fear, or I just looked terrified. I should mention that my pain threshold is at about a one, with 10 being weak and 100 being strong.

“It’s okay. This is nice for boyfriend. It will be worth it.” If you say so. Line up, future lovers.

She tells me it’s important to relax, followed by instructions to exhale when she rips. The word “rip” is especially comforting in this scenario; I had a jar full of hot wax in arm’s reach and a not-entirely-English-speaking stranger about to stretch the inner most parts of my genitals to apply said wax and rip it off.

She gently nudges my left thigh, the one closer to her, down towards the table, more open than I would prefer for third dates. My body tenses up as she gingerly drips and draws the wax onto areas I had forgotten about down there. I actually hear a muffled cry from the room next door. My toes point and clench towards the floor, and the lights suddenly turn off, or perhaps the dark is just my eyes squinching tight.

She holds my skin taut and, just as expected, rips. The rip is excruciatingly painful, but I must say, the lady knows what she’s doing. Datta has it down to an art, briskly and firmly rip-rip-ripping her way around me. After the first few minutes, I become numb to it almost, and I wish the music were turned up louder to tune out my own thoughts. Feeling the worst has got to be over, I request an intermission, a break, even a two second time-out.

“Okay. Next side.”

The fact that I have only endured half of this torture is more than I can stand, but knowing that only the left half of me is now approachable, I oblige. I try to act like this isn’t the worst thing I have ever physically gone through, try to push out the notion creeping into my mind that this pain isn’t worth it, but I know greater suffering has been felt in love and war. This, clearly, was the war part. I should have taken a shot or five beforehand, like my friend Katie urged me to do.

When she’s finished, I feel elated. I breathe a sigh of relief and start getting up. “No, no,” she says.

She hands me a mirror, and what I find to be as the most awkward part of the whole experience is thrust into my hands. I timidly steady the mirror, viewing myself, with her standing over me.

Filling the silence, I murmur, “Oh, good. Better. Thank you.” She looks pleased and nods approvingly, smiling at her work, and begins to clean up her station.

With the pain gone, I ask Datta about scheduling a next appointment. Datta informs me that busy season is starting, so I have to book soon. Busy season, meaning it’s almost short season, which is almost bikini season.

Audra Senkus, co-owner of Haven Spa in Soho, emphasizes the urgency of scheduling waxing appointments as the snow melts.  Said Senkus, “Usually hair grows slower in winter months and faster in the summer months, so you would need to come in more frequently.”

I know the sun is nowhere near coming out to stay for good anytime soon, and I think about the pain I just endured. I feel tricked, not by Datta, of course, but by the fact that many girls out there in the city are strolling around, full of hair and still “getting some”.

Even though I feel fresh and clean, and after time I’m sure I’ll be hooked, I can’t help but wonder, when did manners start to fall into a season?

*Name has been changed.