I'm sitting at a bar with my mother, enjoying a post-dinner drink. We ate at a Mexican restaurant so I’m pretty full and my hair smells like fajitas.
My mother and I are talking about my grandmother’s swollen ankles when she makes an inappropriate segue to bikini waxes. Wow. So not the conversation I want to have with my mother right now. Or ever.
Mom: “So, what’s it like?”
Me: “What do you mean ‘what’s it like?’ It’s like putting hot wax on your skin and ripping out the hair. Down there.”
Mom: “Does it hurt?”
Me: “Actually – to me – it hurts a lot less than waxing my eyebrows.”
Mom, pensive for a minute: “What do I wear?”
Me: “An evening gown.”
Mom: “Huh? What?”
Me: “Just wear your underwear.”
Mom: “Well, Kristin, YOUR underwear and MY underwear are two different things. Yours cover a lot less.” My mom doesn’t know how to whisper. Now the old guy sipping Jameson at the end of the bar thinks I wear crotchless thongs. Nice.
And the conversation goes on. I signal the bartender for a much-needed second drink. My mother continues talking about waxing her hoo haa.
I squirm through another three or four minutes of questioning, ranging from “Do I have to let the hair grown in?” to “Do they wax just the outside?”
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Mom. Please. Just make an appointment and don’t do anything to your…down there…from now until then. Okay?”
My mom stares at me for a minute, looks around the bar, and takes a sip of her Pinot Grigio. She leans in and whispers, “Can you believe that woman has the gall to wear those pants out in public?”