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For me, the worst part about getting a Brazilian wax isn't the pain. (Which, if you haven't had the pleasure, feels like a bolt of lightning traveling from your butthole to the back of your throat, where the audible gasp you'll inevitably be making originates.) Rather, it's the act of voluntarily spending the time and money each month to have a nice lady in pink floral scrubs completely ruin your day. I reserve these tender moments only for special occasions.

For every other time I need a wax, I lean on at-home waxing kits — and a heavy pour of Cabernet Franc — to get the job done. In my quest for the best formulas out there, however, I have learned one thing (or two, if you factor in how humbling it is to try to reach the areas of your net

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