Life & Style | General
Wax on wax off
Ever wished that the forest on your back could be clear-felled? Andy McNab didn't, until a certain lady squeezed the proverbial thumbscrews. Read his story of pain and loss.
- By Andy McNab, freelance writer
- Published: 00:08 July 2, 2008
- Image Credit: Supplied Picture
Ever wished that the forest on your back could be clear-felled? Andy McNab didn't, until a certain lady squeezed the proverbial thumbscrews. Read his story of pain and loss.
"Go on, just touch it." "No! It looks disgusting." "Go on, just a quick touch, it won't bite you. You might even like it." "No chance."
"Well, what exactly do you want me to do, touch it myself?" "If you want to, then whatever... or you could get it removed." "Eh?" "Shaved, waxed, plucked, napalmed. It doesn't matter, just get it removed. It's disgusting."
When breaking-in a new girlfriend we make compromises, we have to. We modify our behaviour and tolerate their (un)natural behaviour in order to appease them - the toilet seat is closed, as is the toothpaste cap, morning breath is tolerated, PDAs (public displays of affection) are exchanged and we even (sometimes) refrain from automatically dropping a double shot of Jaeger into every happy hour drink we order.
My hirsute back had become a major relationship stumbling block. It had somehow changed from being "Oh it's quite cute, blonde and downy, a bit like a baby chick" to being "Uugghh!"
"So what next? If I get my back waxed, where does it all end? Legs, arms, chest... would you like me to have my bikini line dealt with as well?" "No, the rest of you is okay."
And so, after a lengthy exchange, I capitulated - or as we say in relationship speak 'agreed' - to be shorn, defleeced... in short, waxed. She called up, booked me in and even braved the traffic to drop me there; all I had to do was turn up and flick a smile on and off at reception.
And once again I was reunited with my grooming team at H2O, Emirates Tower Hotel. And, was it just me or were they even friendlier for my return visit? "You lead an interesting life," quipped the duty manager who was present at my last treatment.
Back then, I was getting spray-tanned wearing black paper panties as our features editor (who dreams up these assignments) was having his teeth whitened at some swanky clinic.
This month I'm locked in for a back wax as he's off to Cairo on some sort of Viagra-related jolly. "Interesting... I suppose that's one word you could use."
In the locker room I was confronted by the usual suspects: a robe, some slippers, a towel and, thank everything sacred, no black paper panties. Within five minutes
I was lying face down on a treatment table with a panpipe interpretation of Enya wafting through the air while I made uneasy small talk with Hashim my waxmeister de jour.
"So is this going to take long?" "Hard to say sir, depends on your hair type, whether it's thick or thin or..." And then as he lowered the towel to expose my back and shoulders there was an audible gulp. "Okay sir, sorry sir, I'll just be one minute gone, I need some more wax."
Upon returning, he asked, "Now sir, would you like fast wax or slower wax?" "Now Hashim I'm going to assume that I'm not going to enjoy this experience as much as you are, so forgive me if it seems rude of me, but we'll keep this as quick as possible." "Okay sir, one quick wax coming up. And I'm sorry in advance for the pain." "Don't say it, do not say..." "But you know what they say: no pain, no gain."
Our small talk soon clammed up as the first application of molten wax was spread the length of my spine. It was hot, but not too hot. In fact, if that had been the entire process I would have been the happiest person in the treatment room.
Sadly though it wasn't, it was merely a forerunner for the first rip of the day. The waxing strip was pressed against the patch of wax and the ominous silence was broken by Hashim whispering "Are you ready sir? This might shock a little."Before I'd managed to squeeze out a response..."RIPPPPP!!!!!"
* * *
Now, I'll assume unless you've lived your entire life swaddled in cotton wool that you, like me, have been subjected to innumerable sources of pain; and I suppose by running through a few we might get somewhere close to putting the sensory overload of back waxing into context.
Firstly, there's that nagging toothache, the sort which you'd gladly saw off your own head to end; then there's stepping on a three-pin plug in bare feet having been awake for 10 seconds. Likewise, anything to do with shin bones and football studs is never a pleasant experience.
Now try rolling all of these into one big bundle of misery and maybe throw in a poke in the eye and a random 240 volt zap from a badly connected Bolivian power shower and you're part way to understanding the whiny, sobbing terror that is a back wax. I know, I know, I can hear you all now - "Jeez, toughen up princess will ya."
But until you've actually been there and had clump after clump of your hair torn out of their sockets (Do hairs have sockets? - Ed.) that you can accuse me of being a wuss.
I swear quite a bit. Some have even chosen, against their better judgment, to say they consider my profane vocabulary excessive.
I rebuff their claims by suggesting that for some of life's more 'special' scenarios (say, re-registering your car at RTA or cashing a cheque at the bank) polite, everyday words fall short of the mark and it is under such circumstances that I delve into my highly-evolved inbuilt profanosaurus and select a particular word or phrase to convey as concisely as possible my dissatisfaction.
However, as I lay listening to my back wig being torn to pieces, I began to run out of what I'd always regarded as an inexhaustible vocabulary bank.
After the third rip and amid a volley of four-letter words I steadied myself sufficiently to enquire of Hashim whether or not we were almost done. "Ha, ha!" was his reply. "Maybe only 20, 25 per cent finish." Ha, ha, indeed.
The worst thing (aside from the panpipes) is that we all know our own bodies; and I was thinking the middle of the back is probably the least sensitive area. The flanks and lower back would be tenderer and the shoulders and neck, well they'd be the jackpot.
And lying there knowing things were going to get worse left me wondering 'why' and 'what' I was doing. I'm not vain. I try to look presentable but I don't go out of my way to change my appearance unduly.
Had I capitulated? Had I retreated from my manly right to have a hairy back? Shouldn't she put up and shut up and be happy(ish) with the full package? But the long and short was that I was here being 'treated' when I could have been in a watering hole catching a match.
* * *
The final whistle blew after 12 minutes and as I dried my tears Hashim produced a mirror and showed me my back. Immaculately stripped off all its hair, puffy and pink it looked a little more like an oven-ready turkey than a back.
However, there was one glaring problem - one single defiant hair remained. I informed Hashim it would have to go. I hadn't endured all this torture for there to be a thick, greasy black hair left intact.
"Sorry sir, no more wax. Your back has taken it all." "Can't you borrow any from the ladies salon?" "Sir, no sir. We've already used up their wax."
I smiled; my back had managed to clear out a salon of its entire wax stock. Impressive stuff, non? Fearing, I think, that he would be dispatched on a hunt for additional wax Hashim grabbed a pair of tweezers and with a 'ping!' plucked the hair and put it into the waste bin with what looked like a litter of Ewoks.
And so I left H20 feeling, and possibly looking, like John Hurt after his Room 101 experience. A little shaky, incommunicative, fragile and in need of a stiff drink.
The next day once the pain had started to ease, I was given the once over by the handbag, who was impressed by my baby-bald back. She even stroked it and applied a blob of gunk to ease the tenderness. And as with the saying "You've got to go through the pain to get to the pleasure", I was duly rewarded.
The treatment lasts around two months and I have been assured the next session, should there be one, will not be as traumatic as the first (probably because I'll have crunched my way through a fistful of Brufen beforehand).
As for me, it makes little difference whether my back's bushy or bald but I suppose in the wonderful world of relationships we give a little and take a little. Maybe I should sign off by apologising in writing to Hashim, who copped most of the profanosaurus.
"Dear Hashim, Sorry, most of what I said about you, your family and parentage was unfair and unnecessary and had little, if any, basis. Anytime I can return the favour, I'll gladly oblige."
And, can you believe that some gents enter one of those treatment rooms and are stripped of body hair from top to bottom? Now that could easily fill any Arabic dictionary as the true definition of maj'noon.
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