Time to Get a Rosa

My close group of girlfriends from college knows exactly what a “rosa” is. “I’m getting a rosa tomorrow” or “I need to call to make a rosa appointment before senior pub night,” were common phrase to us for nearly four years of college. What is a “rosa” you may ask? The more appropriate question is: WHO is Rosa?

Rosa, though she became somewhat of a mythological creature to us—the great goddess of bikini waxing—is a lovely middle-aged Italian woman who worked at a small salon near our university. This salon was not a swanky establishment, like the place I sometimes go to now in DC, but a small old-school barbershop and hair cutting deal with a room in the back for waxing. No tranquil spa music playing or ambient mood lighting. Just 1980s décor and a table with some towels. This is where Rosa held court and doled out what may be the BEST, quickest, least-painful, and most thorough waxes on the planet.

L turned me on to Rosa’s waxes early in our college career. She raved about Rosa’s handiwork, but when I finally stumbled into Rosa’s salon, it was just dodgy enough to make me wonder whether I wanted to go through with the brazilian wax I’d booked. It’s funny now, because I’ve gotten WAY sketchier waxes since then (stories that I will save for future posts), but I wasn’t quite the seasoned waxer then that I am today. I’d had a few waxes before this one, usually before an appearance on a beach, but nothing regular—this was back in my ignorant days of shaving and the occasional Nair disaster. Clearly, I had no idea what I was missing out on… I remember that this particular occasion was necessitated by an imminent hook up though, so I was a girl on a mission. Faced with my usual pre-wax anxiety—something that I still deal with every time I take off my pants and hop up on the waxing table—I swallowed my pride (though some people recommend popping painkillers or a xanax) and followed Rosa into the back room for something that would become a serious routine

Now, when you went to see Rosa, you’d lie on a table while she blasted the type of music you’d hear in a cheesy Italian restaurant and chatted you up about the weather, celebrity gossip, whatever (though never politics—what a pro). She was businesslike; we were there to execute a job and then move on. Some waxers that I’ve seen have asked prying questions or made uncomfortable comments (i.e. “Wow, you MUST be Italian/Greek” followed by awkward laughter, my reply that I am in fact neither, and a silent “FML.”), but Rosa was different. Her manner was simultaneously clinical and motherly. She made you feel comfortable around her—which is pretty important when you are essentially getting naked, spreading your legs, and letting someone stare at your vag for a while.

It suffices to say that one Rosa experience was enough to get me hooked. Her expertise caught on like wildfire among our group of friends and I quickly became a devotee. Rosa and I came to know each other over the years, but I don’t think that she ever knew me by name, which is pretty ironic given the very intimate experience we shared. But maybe that was part of her appeal. Her no-nonsense attitude endeared her to us, and in a sense, I think the small degree of anonymity helped keep the experience comfortable and even somewhat dignified.

I’ve dabbled a bit in seeing other waxers—in DC, New York, New Jersey, even Cape Town—but somehow always feel like I’m cheating on Rosa. Even though I moved away and now have several places (!) that I like to go to in my new home, I’ve still tried to time things right so I can go see Rosa when I’m back in Boston. I don’t think that she remembers that I graduated and moved away, but she recognizes me, and she’s always ready as ever to get down to business…and all up in my business.