I was considered to be an early bloomer, elementary school was my introduction to the world of puberty. Seemingly out of nowhere, I was hyper-aware of my changing body. It was isolating to be the only girl going through changes, or at least that’s how it felt since no one spoke about it. It is recommended that a girl’s first visit to the gynecologist should be between the ages of 13-15 (Yale Medicine). As a 19-year-old young woman, I still have not booked myself that appointment, nor has my doctor, mother, or any trusted adult suggested that I should. The lack of conversation surrounding this topic has isolated this experience into an unknown that I am in no way eager to discover. The societal stigma that encompassed the gynecologist also carried into my first Brazilian Laser treatment.
My first time ever receiving Laser in my swimsuit area was probably not my brightest idea. I was mindful enough to realize that this may evoke some unknown feelings within myself so I was relieved to know my esthetician of five years, Arlene, would be able to walk me through this. Arlene and I would always gossip during every appointment. I’d update her about my boy drama and she’d tell me about her kids. A friendship that never leaves the office but a connection that is valued nonetheless. I knew nothing about Laser, except for the “pinch” she had described. I can proudly say I did not cry— possibly because Arlene decided to numb the area.
The numbing process was undoubtedly awkward, I wasn’t sure if I should talk, stay quiet, look at her, look elsewhere, or close my eyes? Knowing she was a professional and had done this many times before, slightly calmed my nerves. Not for long. The first beep of the machine alarmed me, it was loud, abrupt, and the tone was too high. As Arlene grabbed the laser I forced myself not to clench the paper on the chair to avoid the obnoxious crinkly sound. Instead, I gripped the side of my thighs and stared at the ceiling in preparation for the pinch… I did in fact feel a pinch—the most painful, uncomfortable pinch ever, but still just a pinch. One after another, the pinches increased in pain as the numbing faded and my skin’s sensitivity heightened. The pain from one pinch carried into the next creating a burning sensation in the most sensitive spot on my body. No one wants to describe that area as burning, the feeling is painful and the embarrassment is unmatched. Arlene continued to talk and ask me about my life, family, and friends. She took breaks when she noticed my thighs getting redder as I squeezed them harder. I wish B-Lush could be the office where I would see the gynecologist and I wish that gynecologist would be Arlene. Unfortunately, she is not. Instead, I anticipate a cold drab office, eerie fluorescent lighting, a doctor I barely know, all regarding a topic I hardly understand.
The physical and mental distress this new experience can evoke is grounded in our most basic instincts. Why is a knowingly distressing event, so unspoken, undiscussed, and under-researched when half the population is required to take such measures to ensure health safety? I am a freshman in college who is scared of the gynecologist and I feel I am justified.