>Two back-to-back (or is that front-to-front?) encounters with Brazilians of the waxed kind:

Sunday while I was at my regular hole-in-the-wall gym, I was watching Australia's Next Top Model. Many of the lasses were mortified when the Australian version of Tyra Banks announced that it was time for their Brazilian waxes. One experienced waxee tried to downplay the pain factor, but no one seemed particularly thrilled about the prospect of having their crotch hairs yanked out of their tender vulvas and asses, particularly my favorite contestant, who confessed to going au naturale. When waxing time arrived, much screaming and crying ensued. And I am not just talking about me.

Yesterday, on the other hand, I went to a super fancy branch of my gym chain in SoHo. It was a good thing that I shaved my legs and pits on Sunday afternoon as Step 1 in my two step hair removal process for my upcoming trip to India. (Step 2 will be to use the electric razor that yanks hairs out by the roots – which has a name that I can't recall this second – so that I don't have to worry while I am in India.) I think they might not have let me into the gym with my fur matting.

Anyway, as I wrote on The People Under the Stairmasters, an awesome group blog on gym culture, I was assaulted by all the shiny, waxed snatch parading around the locker room. The lighting seriously reflected off the poon in blinding ways. I am not making this up. A bald man would possibly kill everyone in sight range with the power rays that would emanate from his skull. He probably should not be in the women's locker room, though, so I think I am safe, but still.

Off to my wacky internship and then my even wackier road trip.