A Bottle of Wine or a Vagacial, that's the Question

A good friend of mine asked me to read an article published on November 10, 2010 in Bazaar titled: The Peach Smoothie, The hottest new spa service takes the quest for perfect skin to a new place. Alex Kuczynski bravely investigates: http://www.harpersbazaar.com/beauty/health-wellness-articles/vagina-facial-spa-treatment.

I had not read the article, nor was I aware that such a service existed in our United States of America. But that’s not surprising. I’m the type of a gal who doesn’t even bother to get a manicure, plus the only few times I’ve reluctantly had a facial was when it was offered as part of a package by some hotel or another and it would have been a total waste not to take advantage of it. Still, when I did have a facial it didn’t feel relaxing to lie there for an hour or more, awake and aware and able, with my hyperactive brain having nothing better to do than concoct horrific images of my beet-red face and swollen nose after the beautician was done steaming and poking and probing and squeezing my poor skin.

So imagine my surprise when I read the article, which by the way is hilarious and well worth reading, and learned that this “Peach Smoothie” thing is not a facial that’s supposed to make your face as soft and smooth and flawless as peach fuzz, but a “Vagacial.” Yes, you read right, this is not a typo. A vagacial is supposedly a facial (can’t call it that, can I?) for the vulva. Please! Give me a break-and-a-half! Does your man really care? Does he periodically examine you under a bright light or preferably in sunlight, with a thermometer in hand to gauge the level of your softness down there, checking you for any sprouting blackhead, whitehead, or pimple (do these even appear down there?) or, horror of horrors, imagine an extra out-of-place, unruly, curly hair. If you answered yes to any of the above scenarios, you must first inform your man that the vagina is like a self-cleaning oven, after which you must promptly pack your bags and walk out because you are with the wrong man. Or, on the other hand, if you’re happy where you are, you might simply be a masochist, and each to her own.

OK! So you got my message. What I’m trying to say is that it’s us women who have brought about these horrors upon ourselves. Who obsessively pick and prod and pluck and squeeze and stretch and lather and smear every public and private part of ourselves until nothing looks the way nature intended it to look.

Now that we have survived another year, let’s raise our glasses to Mother Nature, pocket that $50 or $150 we’d spend on beautifying our vulvas and spend it on a good bottle of wine.

Read on Huffington Post

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