Me: (pointing toward the waiting room) "There's a man out there."

Bikini waxer: "We know."

Me: "He's sitting next to the Brown Betty pubic hair dye."

Bikini waxer: "Also the aromatherapy candles."

Me: "Is he lost? Maybe we should help him. Ohmygod, are those earrings new? They're gorgeous."

I love my waxing salon. It's in a little converted cottage. There is tea served in porcelain cups, glass jars of cookies, dainty chairs and a three-foot-square painting of Princess Diana over the reception desk. Everything is pastel and smells like flowers. Everyone knows everyone else or pretends like they do, and everyone is greeted with, "Oh hi! You look so cute today!" said in that high-pitched voice that upset dogs.

I would live there if they let me.

It's just so girly. Not the awful Pepto-Bismol explosion that is the girl aisle at Toys 'R Us but grownup girly. This is what everything would look like if there were no men, and we weren't forever compromising on gender neutral bed linens. I wish my wax appointments took longer, and yes, I know how weird that is.

And so to walk into my feminine haven, my place away from NASCAR and boxer shorts on the bathroom floor and Worlds of Warcraft going eight hours a day on the computer, and to see a man sitting there - well, I'm not going to lie to you. It was weird.

Oh, he was welcomed. I smiled at him. Somebody probably told him he looked cute that day and offered him tea in the little rose cups. But secretly? Secretly, we all wanted him to go away.

Turns out, he was married to somebody or other. He wasn't there by choice. He didn't want tea in a little cup or a tiny cookie or Brown Betty pubic hair dye. He was there under duress. I feel for him. I do. For one thing, all those high-pitched voices and the smelly candles and the itty-bitty chairs. Not to mention all the women getting their pubic hair ripped out.

Poor guy.

I hope he learned his lesson.

Next time? Next time, wait outside.