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Let’s chat body waxing. What in god’s great hell is this about?
I waxed my back for the first time this week, and mah-gawd who chooses to do this to themselves?
To be clear, I don’t have a particularly hairy back, it’s more ‘furry,’ but I’d been considering going hair-free for a while and waxing seemed the second best way to go about it.
The best way was to laser it off, but I was told my hair was ‘too fair’ for this procedure, so to Plan B I went.
I walked into the beauty parlour across the road; it had ‘Waxing & Nails’ written on the sign so it seemed a safe bet.
As a 30 year old, it’s rare you walk into any type of store for the first time, but I immediately knew why I had never been; as I slid the door open I was confronted with what could best be described as a tidal wave of nail-polish-aroma.
How do people not die of toxic fumes in here? As a man, it is not a welcoming place.
Every set of eyes (about 15) turned to me, the only man in the room; there in the doorway I stood, a 100kg bald giant, in a room of very well presented women.
No one moved and so after a few weird silent moments I said in my most obviously-cool slash obviously-totally-uncomfortable tone “Hi, ahh, I’m here for a, ahh, back wax.”
I know it’s very much in vogue for guys to shave, trim, wax amd remove hair on their body now-a-days, but there is no way to make this announcement and not feel totally exposed.
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Yet another woman emerged from a back room, and ushered me to the area that had a massage bed waiting (which was comforting) but with plastic covering (which was less so).
I indicated I wanted my back done, while pointing out it was my first time and so if she could be gentle it would be appreciated.
I don’t know if my charming and disarming smile and welcoming nature was appreciated but ignored, or just straight ignored, but she did not go gentle.
Now, the clichéd expectation for waxing is the sound of velcro tearing; that’s what that horrific scene in 40 Year Old Virgin would have me believe, but I’d never expected it to actually sound like velcro tearing.
As she spread the hot wax on my lower back I wasn’t at all prepared for her to try to rip not just the hair, but the skin, the next layer of skin and all vital organs below off my body.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIP.
The sound came first, then the burning fire of a thousand suns.
What the hell is this sh*t!
My body tensed as if stunned by a taser, and held the tension at the realisation I had many many many strips to go. Am I being punished for having a broad, impressive back? Why does this woman hate me? Is this how I die?
The next strip was applied and before knew it – RRRRRRRRRRRRRRIP.
What happened in this woman’s childhood that made her want to hurt people like this?
And another – RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIP
This woman hates men, that’s what’s clear.
RRRRRRRRRRRRIP
And happiness.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRIP
Ok, I was done, let me out.
“Excuse me” I said, in the calmest tone I could muster, “Is it possible we not continue?”
“Oh no. Must keep going. Will look silly. Done soon” She said.
I wanted to scream violent, horrific words at her; I wanted her to know that she is proof the terrorists are winning, and if I ever had the opportunity to drive my car into the shop front of her store I would, but instead went with “Oh, ok, cool.”
More wax – more strips – more ripping.
I was doing a map of my back, figuring out what areas were done and what areas were left; I also started mentally penning a letter to my local member to have this place closed down.
It’s not just the ripping that hurt, it was the anticipation…
The period between when she would place the strip down and when she tore it back up again was a cruel and unique mental torture that I imagine even the Nazi’s wouldn’t have thought up.
We repeated the torment again and again, and then, just like that, it was over; all the hair was gone, and the pain was over.
The woman applied some kind of magical soothing oil over my back which was welcomed like rain on a barren desert, and I was free to go. My captor had released me.
Why do people do this to themselves? And more notably why do women do this to themselves in areas far more sensitive?
I walked to the counter to pay, “You come back. Three months.” I laughed, and considered how much more likely I would be to stick a fork in my eyeball than return to this pain factory, “Probably not, I’m sorry.”
“No. Three month. Come back.” This woman petrifies. "Ok", I said. "I’ll come back."
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