Bitter Betty and the Brazilian

Brazilians...the other kind. Photo Credit: artie*/Flickr

After my last column, one of my readers suggested that it was about time I get laid. I agree.

It was with that frame of mind that I went on the first date with my mystery man from the tube. We had been texting back and forth since our encounter on the Northern Line, so I knew he was Brazilian, and that his name was Gustavo. He had asked me out to a Brazilian place and told me to prepare myself to be swept away.

On the day of our date, I decided to come prepared for some action. I went to the hairdresser, put on a healthy helping of fake tan lotion and waxed my legs. Wouldn’t want him to be too grossed out by the evidence of a long winter, I thought. I had no idea how long Gustavo had been over here, but if he had just landed, he would definitely be scared off by my European-style hair au naturel, even after my leg-wax had taken care of the worst. So in the last minute, I decided to do something drastic to be sure I wouldn’t frighten him—I went to a beautician to have a Brazilian wax.

Now, for those of you who need to brush up on your knowledge of nation-specific hair-removal, the Brazilian wax is the one where EVERYTHING is removed. It means you have to expose your private parts to an orange-skinned lady with tattooed eyebrows and an appalled facial expression (or was that just my beautician? Not sure if everyone else waits till winter is over before trimming the hedges).

I knew from some of my more high-maintenance friends that getting waxed where the sun doesn’t shine is unpleasant. I did not, however, expect the shrill, ripping sound to be followed by a sensation that can best be described as being peeled with a giant cheesecutter while someone is setting fire to the remaining patches of skin on your buttocks. The orange beautician assured me that the pain would go away shortly. Good, I thought, because I had less than an hour to get to Gustavo’s chosen restaurant.

As I walked from the tube to the restaurant, I realised that the pain wasn’t going away. In fact, my bum was getting itchier for every step I took in my super tight jeans, prompting me to adopt a new, stiff gait to avoid wriggling my sore backside-skin unnecessarily. Luckily, I arrived before Gustavo and had time to go to the bathroom to check up on the situation—this is what those little mirrors they sell in Camden Market are good for. The sight that met me was red, spotty and frightening—suffice it to say that I changed strategy from getting laid to playing coy and getting a second date.

As it turned out, I hadn’t even experienced the worst part of the evening yet. When I walked out of the bathroom, I spotted Gustavo at a table in the dining room downstairs. Trying my best to walk in a semi-sexy manner, I met his gaze and took a step down the stairs. Or rather, that’s what I thought I was doing. In reality, I tripped and flew down the staircase with my legs up and my itchy baboon bum heading straight for the marble floor with nauseating speed. If you’ve ever broken your tailbone, you know what the following seconds felt like. I must have passed out from the pain, because the next thing I remember is waking up in hospital with my trousers down, two white-clad doctors with puzzled faces bent over me and Gustavo looking at the glorious sight with a horrified face. So much for not scaring him off.

Surprisingly, all is not lost. I’ve just been let out from hospital, and he is texting me as I write this, asking if I want to give our date a second chance. This time, I won’t go anywhere near the beautician first.