A FEW years ago I got a Groupon for laser hair removal.
Sitting in the waiting room, I saw a couple: a pretty girl in the lap of an older, well-groomed, hair-gelled guy. When the nurse called the young woman’s name they both stood up, the guy asking, shyly, if it would be O.K. if he came in, too.
I couldn’t figure it out. Was watching your beloved get her chin or upper lip zapped some kind of erotic experience beyond the range of my imagination?
“What else do you guys do here?” I asked a nurse, who whispered, “Vaginal reconstruction.”
At 44, I am old enough to remember when reconstruction was something you read about in history class, when a muffin top was something delicious you ate at the bakery, a six-pack was how you bought your beer, camel toe was something one might glimpse at the zoo, a Brazilian was someone from the largest country in South America and terms like thigh gap and bikini bridge would be met with blank looks.