The Clothes Make the Girl

by Brittany Gibbons

  My waxer’s name was Rachel, and she had great eyebrows, which is something you notice when you are trying not to look someone directly in the eye. She gave me a wet wipe to quickly preclean my pubic area and a tiny paper thong to put on before climbing on the table.

  She gave me privacy while I took my pants off, and from the second I put the paper underwear on, it was apparent I had overshot the hair-growth rule. They told me on the phone that I needed at least a quarter of an inch of hair for the wax to properly catch and pull the hair out. I easily had a member of the cast of Duck Dynasty between my legs. So much so that Rachel had to trim my hair, with scissors, before she could even begin to wax.

  From the very start, it was ungodly painful. The top was the absolute worst, and there was nothing to be done. I just lay there as she ripped my hair out from the root, trying not to scream so loud it would upset the hot-stone-massage people down the hall.

  Once she made her way down to the lip and inner lip area, the pain decreased by at least half. It went from wiping-a-hot-curling-iron-all-over-your-face painful to simply stepping-on-a-mousetrap-with-your-labia painful. Totally doable.

  Rachel worked really quickly, and just when I thought she was done, she asked me to get on my knees and lean in to her so she could wax my anus. Which is a thing that Google did not tell me was going to happen, and I had not prepared for. Surprisingly, waxing your butt is completely painless, which was a welcome perk to having to pull my cheeks apart for a woman I’d just met.

  The entire process took maybe ten minutes, and she finished off the wax by tweezing a few stray hairs and then left the room for me to re-dress. I got off the table and immediately looked at the trash can where she’d been tossing the used strips of cloth; it looked like an Ewok had died in there.

  As I slid up my pants, it was clear that I had an unprecedented amount of room in the crotch, and when I got into my car, I had to adjust my rearview mirror, as I was sitting a good two to three inches shorter.

  I know that being completely hairless weirds some people out, and makes them feel childlike. I agree: it is a pretty icky thing to think about. But I actually loved being waxed smooth, and it made things so much cleaner and easier, especially when I was on my period.

  It was like living with a Sphynx cat. I could not stop touching it, and I wanted to show it to all my friends. Strangely, everyone gets weird when you pull your pants down in a Chili’s. Go figure.

  Pubic hair or no pubic hair is a personal choice, and there is no wrong answer. And truth be told, my preference ebbs and flows, both because I’m lazy and terrible at scheduling appointments, and because sometimes I just really dig having a bush.

  If you are interested in waxing but nervous, I want to try to calm some of your fears. First, you are not too fat to get a Brazilian, and nobody cares what your vagina looks like. Trust me, waxers are professionals who have seen all sorts of women and all sorts of vaginas, and unless there’s a baby leg hanging out, yours is not the weirdest they’ve ever seen.

  Also, don’t worry about the smell. I mean, worry about the smell if it’s suspicious and you need a doctor or something, but we all have scents, and before you get your wax, you’ll most likely have to wipe yourself down with cleansing wipes or powder, then put on paper underwear, and everything is kosher. Trust me.

  As for having to move your squishy parts around to reach hair, that will probably happen. But I want to assure you that my waxing was done in the most nonchalant and “no big deal” way possible. I actually tried to intervene a lot my first time, pushing my inner-thigh fat down and stretching my whole body out straight to try to make my vagina look less chubby. Rachel had to bat my hands away and tell me to stop. Waxers know what positions work best to reach the hair, they know which positions minimize pain, and they know that they are waxing human people. As such, they fully expect that those people come with things like tummies and thighs, or in my case, fat vaginas.

  Remember that a Brazilian wax means they wax everything, including your butt . . . because apparently there’s still ape hair there. WTF evolution? I know you think it will be embarrassing, especially if, say, you have a really, really cute post-kid hemorrhoid there or something, but it’s not. And it’s also the least painful area they wax, so you might as well enjoy it.

  Lastly, be prepared for effects that extend beyond suddenly needing smaller-size underwear and obsessively petting yourself. Peeing was weird at first. I don’t know why, but I went from having a normal stream of pee to what can only be described as the sprayer thing attached to your sink that has, like, one wonky-clogged spray hole that makes it go all weird. It’s cool now, but I needed goggles for a while until I got things under control.

  All in all, my waxer, Rachel, is one of the most women-positive people I know, which makes sense: she’s on the front line of an intimate battle.

  And hey, always tip your waxer nicely. There are people you need to keep happy in life, and the person who willingly waxes your butthole is one of them.

  Women need to feel insecure about doing something for themselves like they need another hole in the head.

  YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION TO HATE YOURSELF

  Listen, it’s totally cool if you hate your body today. I just want to take that pressure off you right from the start. I’d also like to say, “Hey, me too!”

  I’m in that weird time before my period starts when I plan to eat everything and wear nothing that deals with buttons, constriction, or a waist of any kind. I have no immediate plans to entertain guests, I’m avoiding the mirror and selfie camera, and I cringe when my husband or children touch my body.

  I used to feel very ashamed about feeling this way. Hating yourself is a very isolating situation, so much so that it tricks you into thinking you’re the only one to ever have these thoughts of disgust about yourself. You are not.

  Some could argue that not liking yourself is one of the easiest things you can do, and that loving your body is actually very hard. Based on zero scientific evidence beyond knowing lots of women and collectively hating our bodies at various points in our lives, I’m here to tell you that it is probably true.

  DISCLAIMER: Yes, it’s hard to see my body as a failure sometimes. It feels selfish and wrong. Here I am, waking up every morning, walking around without any known diseases. I’m running and jumping and playing with my kids, ultra-aware that what I’m doing—this heart-beating, lung-expanding, intestines-doing-whatever-the-hell-they-do thing—is very much a privilege.

  I’m privileged to have organs that do what they are supposed to do. I’m privileged to have legs that walk and eyes that see, and not be in a hospital somewhere, or worse, gone. Those are privileges.

  How do I justify spending so many moments of extreme privilege hating this magnificent machine that I walk around in? I have a body that performs all these complicated scientific miracles that I could never possibly understand, and yet I never say thank you. I never say “how glorious” or “thank God.” I never high-five myself and think, Hey, good job on that digestion earlier!

  Instead, I take it completely for granted and go on to bitch and complain the whole time. My brain has evolved into a snarky Monday-morning quarterback.

  “Hey, congratulations on receiving that humanitarian award last night, but maybe you could have eaten less bread at the table.”

  “I like your new driver’s-license photo, the shadow from your forehead really hides your double chin.”

  Listen, it’s a miracle that you are alive today. Many, many people do not get that privilege. You can change lots of things in this life, but one thing you can’t change is the fact that you can never get back time. There are no do-overs. No chances to join in and live more when instead you sat out, and all those other feel-good greeting-card sayings. This is it.

  All that being said, what you are feeling about yourself right now is fine and normal and allowed. Because I say so.

  Some of the hardest conversations I’ve had about my hiccups in self-love we
re with my husband. And you could apply this level of hardness to almost anyone in your life. Your significant other, your mom, your best friend . . . realizing you are okay with not loving yourself every day is one thing, convincing others it’s okay is an entirely different monster.

  “What are you looking for?” Andy asked, leaning against the door of my walk-in closet.

  “My black leggings,” I answered, not looking up as I dug through a pile of black clothing on the floor.

  “There’s literally a whole stack on this shelf, just grab a pair so we can go.” He sighed.

  The tears that had been welling up in my eyes had finally reached capacity, and were spilling down my cheeks.

  “Those leggings don’t fit me right,” I explained. “I want the ones that cover my tummy all the way and aren’t worn thin in the thigh.”

  To the untrained eye, those leggings were no different from the leggings folded and piled next to me. They were a spandex needle in the haystack, but my self-esteem hinged on them.

  “Just go without me and let me stay home,” I cried.

  Many of my interactions with my closet went just like this. Own five hundred things, wear only ten. When I’m not feeling my body, that list shrinks to three. But what do you say to someone to convince them that this whole hating-your-body, nothing-to-wear, everything-is-horrible thing is not only valid, but totally allowed? Here are some helpful talking points.

  1. First of all, you just have to let me hate my body. Let me have my complaining and moaning, and let me just sit in it, all day long. Don’t try to pacify me with “if you could only see what I see’s” or “but you’re beautiful’s,” just let me tell you what I hate and how much I hate it. I have to carry this struggle around every minute of every day in my head. When I order food, when I catch my reflection while I wash my hands in the bathroom sink, when I’m in my car and I look down at a red light and notice my thighs squishing together. Every single second of every day is directly affected by how I feel about my weight. It’s suffocating and exhausting, and sharing the burden of it with you is a welcome relief. So listen to me, don’t interrupt or shake your head, listen and nod, and when I’m done, resist the urge to shower me with every ounce of beauty you see in me, and instead ask, “How can I help?”

  2. Spoiler alert: You can’t actually help. Be prepared to not be able to fix this shit at all. I held on to teeny-tiny jeans from high school in my closet for fourteen years, until I finally threw them away a few months ago. They were an entire person smaller than my current size, but I couldn’t let go of that gut-level need to maintain the hope that I would one day fit into the stupid pants again, thus making me a better woman. Fourteen years, dude. It was adorable that my husband thought he could in some way override the longest relationship I’d ever had with doses of unconditional love and commitment. There is no duct-tape fix for a woman hating her body.

  3. The Julia Roberts Pretty Woman Hooker in a Boutique moment. Seriously, every woman knows what this is, and every woman needs it. After you’ve been shut down and rejected by aloof teens staffing mall clothing stores, there is relief in walking into a safe place, crumbled up hundred-dollar bills in your hands, and having someone genuinely help you find something you feel beautiful in.

  It took Andy demanding that I take off work to go shopping for a whole day with the caveat that I could only purchase clothes for myself. He didn’t have to give me permission because he’s the head of the household and controls the money like in an episode of Mad Men. He had to give me permission because I was so not kind and encouraging to myself; my coping mechanism was to ignore my personal needs altogether; after all, as women, we often do for ourselves last. What can I say, we’re a selfless breed, you’re welcome, all men.

  Having something to wear is an important part of self-esteem. When you want to leave the house and you’re still in the bedroom distraught and sobbing that you have nothing to wear, what that really means is that you have nothing to wear that makes you feel at all worthy to be seen or loved in public. Can you imagine feeling so ashamed of your body that you won’t leave the house? It’s a real thing. Having pieces that genuinely fit and flatter your current shape is a game changer.

  4. Help me take responsibility for myself. At the end of the day, this is on me. I have to be the one strong enough to scream “ENOUGH!” to society with its obnoxious marketing and unrealistic beauty standards, because they aren’t going to change anytime soon. What will change is the way I let those standards affect me. While you can’t step in and fix my self-esteem issues, you can be a really great model of strength and advocacy I can learn from, and eventually apply to my own body issues.

  Is my overbearing mom commenting on every forkful of food I bring to my lips? Speak up and defend me until I’m ready to tell my mom to shut the hell up, myself. Note: I’m all for feminism, but defending my honor is one of my biggest turn-ons.

  Is your friend making fun of fat chicks while watching the football game in your living room? Shut it down until I get the tits to stand up and remind him how damn sexy all women are, regardless of size.

  Strength and confidence are contagious. I like to use the clichéd analogy of climbing Everest. I will never reach the peak, but over time, I’ll stumble less and climb to higher base camps. Sometimes the best you can do is be my Sherpa; offering guidance when asked, repeating uplifting feminist Emma Watson quotes in times of need, and helping me take really cool selfies.

  5. Realize that body hate is a shapeshifter. Some days it comes as finicky hair or a run in our tights; other days as the tsunami of tears in our car outside of work. Both are consuming, and like an iceberg, you might only see the tip, so it’s easy to think, Just get over it. But what you don’t see is what’s lurking underneath the water; a mountain of anxiety and self-doubt. Treat both with equal amounts of understanding and seriousness, because to us, they’re both the same amount of day-ruining horribleness.

  On the flip side of all of this, it’s okay to be excited about your body. Heck, I highly encourage it, every chance you get.

  For some reason, women are made to feel bad for both loving and hating their bodies. That means being a woman is a losing battle. If we feel bad about our bodies, we’re failures; if we feel good about them, we’re arrogant and conceited. Neither of these is true.

  It’s okay to walk out of the fitting room and take a look in the big general-population mirror, not because you want a better look at the fit of what you’re trying on, but because you know you look fly as hell. You peacock your way all around that dressing room aisle runway, and if I sense you doing it, I’ll open up my door and I’ll applaud you. You’ll recognize me as the girl with the pale legs trying on bathing suits with ankle socks.

  This is also why I love seeing my social media channels congested with selfies. I’d rather see constant documented moments of life than worry that my friends don’t feel important enough to be captured and shared. I don’t even care if you filter the photo beyond recognition and you live your selfie life in a Barbara Walters soft-focus haze; do what makes you feel confident, and eventually one day you’ll decide to show up in my feed sans Clarendon.

  These love/hate feelings for your body are not mutually exclusive and can coexist from day to day—hell, from hour to hour, if you so choose. You could feel insecurity at 10 A.M. and like Ashley Graham by dinner, and that’s fine.

  So, while I’m giving you permission to have the bad days, know that the goal is that they come with a time limit. Wallow in those moments of frustration and disesteem, soak in every drop, and take advantage of sitting that day out. I mean, really take advantage of it; eat what makes you happy, cry because it feels good, sit pantless in the tub because it makes you feel small, live the life of self-loathing.

  Once you’ve done all of that, take a shower and start over knowing that 90 percent of the people out to judge you are inside your own head. Nobody else cares, and I’m not saying that to be mean, I’m saying it because we’re all just as
busy lumbering about our lives with our own internal monologues of how much we suck. Body shame is not special and it’s not unique. Everyone is just trying to feel better about themselves, and nobody really knows how. Including me. But I have a few ideas.

  First, you can’t hang liking yourself on some goal you hope to someday reach. Whether it’s weight loss or fitting into an outfit, you can’t withhold happiness as punishment. You know who does that? Disney villains. And the last thing you want is to be the bad guy in your own story. The only thing it will result in is years and years of you sitting on the sidelines being angry with yourself. And that angry face you make gives you wrinkles.

  Next, you need to realize you don’t owe anyone shit. Your body is yours, and only you get to decide how you feel about it today. Personally, I’m tired of explaining to people that I am healthy so they allow me to like myself. And I’m tired of hiding my insecurities because I’m afraid this will only confirm what people might be judging me for. Whether or not you are healthy, have lost weight, have an invisible disorder or disability, or went through something traumatic . . . people aren’t entitled to your story, but they are required to be kind to you. You need to stop giving them parts of you in response to their judgment. Knowing you is a gift, and we don’t give gifts to mean people anymore.

  Know that not everyone deserves you. I know that as a fat woman, I have spent a lot of time feeling so unwanted or overlooked, and so desperate for attention or to be seen. And it was that desperation that blinded me to the crappy people around me: friends who made snarky remarks, family members who said mean things, men and women who used me because they saw my kindness and longing for love as weakness.