They say to “do one thing that scares you every day.” While that is all well and good, most days I prefer to pass without fear, but today I decided to branch out into a previously unexplored, and therefore terrifying, area. Today, I got my first (and possibly last) bikini wax.

With an upcoming trip to Hawaii, I just had to find a hairless solution to my itsy bitsy bikini. For weeks, I asked my friends for advice on where to go, who to ask for, and what to ask for. After serious debate and careful deliberation, I called the local wax center and asked for Sherry.

As I drove to the center, I called my best friend and wax confidante for one final pep talk. This pep talk did nothing but alarm me as she informed me that after all of my deliberation, I failed to research the importance of preparation. Apparently, my unkept nether region was going to hurt a whole lot more because of its natural and untrimmed length.

While I sat in a rather posh leather chair in the waiting room, I contemplated different runaway strategies, but a bright-eyed and cheery receptionist assured me that it was all going to be OK. Before I even had a chance to bolt, Sherry called my name from her hit list of a clipboard, and I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter as I followed her into the back room.

We had a brief conversation and I confessed to my wax virginity, and she, like so many others, assured me that it wouldn’t be all that bad. I stripped down and said a silent prayer before exposing myself on the table. Sherry and I chit chatted about this and that as I watched her twirl a popsicle stick in a mysterious vat of purple goo. Before long I was slathered in a hot purple sludge from end to end as I tried not to think about how it would feel for that same purple goop to come off.

I didn't have to wonder for long. With an experienced quickness and direction, Sherry ripped off the wax in a single and painful pull. I silently cursed everyone who said this ‘wouldn’t be so bad’ and regretted every decision that brought me to this cursed waxing table. But then, I thought that had to be all of it. How could I possibly have more hair than that? Turns out, I did. I had a lot more hair than that, and Sherry continued to come at me with a gooey purple popsicle stick and an amiable smile. I wanted to hate her, I really did, but she was so kind and smiley that I couldn’t help but want to be her friend. I felt that I had succumbed to a seriously bad case of Stockholm Syndrome.

After a lot more ripping, tearing and screaming, Sherry delivered the best news I had heard in the past 30 minutes: I was done. I had survived and was invigorated with a wave of sheer gratitude. I thanked both Sherry and God before taking a look at the final product. My hairless skin seemed to sparkle it was so smooth, and I couldn't wait to slip into a teeny, tiny bikini and show the world Sherry’s work of art.

There must have been something in that wax because, after all that pain, I scheduled another appointment that I know will inflict more pain, but will also leave me feeling silky smooth. It seems that I have drank the purple wax Kool-Aid.