I don’t usually discuss my vajaja with grown ups, or any males for that matter especially not family members so this is for purely entertainment purposes.

The other day I was given a gift voucher to The four Seasons Spa in Paris. The gift voucher was for 50Euro which, for a little South African who times everything by ten is quite a lot, but in Paris and especially in this top spa my 50Euro voucher could not get me very far actually, the only thing it could get my was a bikini wax. So I resorted to an extravagant bikini wax which was much against my “spending morals” as nothing worth that much had ever been near my vajaja let alone done to it.

I decided to make an occasion of this Spa day and dressed up, went early, enjoyed the sauna and swimming pool as well as the herbal teas and English speaking people around. I was greeted in French by Lillian and led into a beautiful, peaceful room where my wax would take place. Petals covered the bed, classical music played in the background and sweet smelling essence filled the room_ all making for the right environment for a 50Euro bikini wax. I lay down, Lillian applied the wax and ripped (just cause it cost more doesn’t mean it hurt less), she looked and repeated the procedure. At the end of the session, she applied a soft (apparently secret Four Seasons cream although I thought it looked like good old Vaseline) and poured me some more relaxing tea.

I went to the change room and put on my clothes not inspecting my new 50Euro piece of art, handed in my voucher and went back into reality of hot weather, grumpy Frenchmen and my room which is smaller than one shower at Spa. That evening I got undressed and as I looked down I saw what every women dreads: a lopsided vajaja! Yes that’s it right, after excruciating pain and 50Euro I was now lopsided..


Today I achieved new levels of making this city my home. I made an appointment (in French) and went for, what I thought was, an ordinary bikini wax. I arrived on time, I have found here, like their trains, their appointments or reservations are on time to the second so being late for an appointment like this, where my bikini area was at stake, would obviously not be a good idea. I thought I had better tread lightly (and on time) around the French lady with hot wax and in fact ran down Rue des Archieves to reach the salon on time. As I ran through the little wooden doors I noticed four policemen outside, their purpose? I had no idea. I walked in and in my “clearly learning French/ not actually from Paris” french I explained I had a reservation, the little french, perfectly manicured lady nodded and in broken English asked if I was English, I replied South African, she nodded (again) and led me upstairs. Looking at her I suddenly wished I had painted my nails or at least walked in slightly more stylishly and not huffing and puffing!

I must now point out that this experience of mine was a very risky thing, not just going up the stairs but first, trying out a new beauty salon and second having a bikini wax by someone who does not speak your language…at all! Does “petit” mean “petit” on or “petit” off and does “grande” mean “grande” left or not. I reasoned with myself and came to the conclusion that there was only one way to find out!

The little french, perfectly manicured lady then said something and I had no idea what she meant, she then left the room! “What do I do?” I thought remembering the policemen outside and decided the the best thing to do would be to wait for her to return instead of whipping off my pants and being arrested for what I wouldn’t even understand. She returned and said the same thing, this time making body movements (strange body movements have become a life saving communication device in this city of style) of taking off her pants. I cautiously removed mine. She pointed to the bed, I tip toed towards it and jumped up. Compared to the other women, Parisian women, I am sure that my African ass was more than the bed, or the little french, perfectly manicured lady expected but never the less.

I sat there and then I saw it… the hot, bubbling wax. Who waxes with actual boiling wax? Luckily my massive eyes seem to be a universal signal of worry and she asked in a completely calm manner, “tres chaud?” I quickly replied, “Oui”. She left the room. I briefly thought of the police, who from the window, I could see still outside. She came back in (thank heavens), with no police but rather a new pot of unbubbling wax. I must admit the sight of the wax seemed to relax me, I think it must have been the colour. It was the most gorgeous pink I had ever seen and not just in bikini wax terms but in a very pretty baby pink, on your cupcakes kind of colour and even though my cupcake was the only place it was going, it was very pretty. I think the relief also came from the fact that the texture looked vaguely like the type we have back at home, so at least I was certain that the broken french a nd strange body movements had gotten successfully through to the little, french, perfectly manicured lady that a bikini wax was indeed, what I wanted.

Next thing I knew she started to lather on the wax and rip viciously. She chatted away in french and whenever I got the chance I added, “ca va”… but she did more…and more and I said, “fini” she said, “ca va?” I said, “oui” (please heavens) and she said, “ca va” so I replied, “ca va” and we carried on like this while we both stared at my bikini line…

She then walked behind me, put the bed flat down, held my leg up and before I could say “non” or “fini” or any other word to possibly make her stop, she was applying cupcake coloured wax in places that I didn’t even know existed and put me in positions that i didn’t even know were possible.I have not only learnt to “gym” my verbs in France but had a complete education regarding the kinetics of the female body. She then asked me if I was learning french, I replied “oui” so she pointed at my “cupcake” and gave me the french word. I smiled and she smiled.

I left the salon relieved that I was still existing (even though parts of me felt as if they were missing), that the police were still standing there and that now I know, without exception, that the French do not accept anything from different countries, even if they use the word Brazilian they mean something completely different!

The place is called “Jean-Claude Biguine” which is a chain of beauty and hair salons all over the city.¬†Two particular locations are:

72 Rue du Bac (phone: 0142225751)
29 Rue des Francs Bourgeois (phone: 0142724233)