The flesh is weak. Wax is forever.
I finished my second of four midterms this morning, so I suppose it's time for an update. The recent subject on everyone's lips: wax. Remember wax lips? Worst. Halloween "treat." Ever.
Yes, I actually did go through with it. Yes it hurt. Before I go into the details, I'd like to address the common question I keep getting. Namely, "why did you do it?" I figured it would be obvious - hair removal. Why else would I do it? Fun? That certainly wasn't fun. If you think that's fun, I'm giving you the big "302.83" stamp right across the forehead. I suppose I also did it because it's funny. How many guys do you know who have been waxed? Just my man Steve Carell. Stevey, I feel your pain. And that was funny, right? Kelly Clarkson!!
So I arrive at the Artistic Beauty College (the only thing funnier than being waxed is being waxed by amateur students) full of vim and vigor. Excited and scared about what would unfold. The first thing that happens is the receptionist informing me that the students don't wax guy chests. Why, I enquire. Liability reasons, she answers. I scratch my head, confused. Is that area more dangerous, I ask. It's just liability, she replies. Good thing she knew what she was talking about - it's a good way to instill confidence in your patient.
I think she was just intimidated by the glorious mane proudly bursting forth from under my shirt (I wore a white shirt in the hopes of bleeding, by the way). Seriously, I was like Gossamer before. I had just assumed half my body mass was hair and that after the waxing I'd be like three feet tall and 30 pounds. She was probably worried they wouldn't have enough wax. Now that I think about it, I should've donated the shedding to Locks of Love. Anyway, i was a little upset by this new information. but later I'd come to appreciate their lack of chest services.
When I got back there, I was informed of the "real" reason they wouldn't do chest. My waxer, a woman by the name of Mercedes, told me that there is no clear "end of chest" distinction on dudes. Some guys want her to go "all the way down," which the students aren't comfortable with. I'm not even comfortable hearing that. I said I wouldn't want below the waistline and I'd pay more, but she still refused. Thankfully. I still think there must be another reason.
She she tag-teamed me with some other chick (how often do I get to say that?) since the other woman's appointments were no-shows and she was bored. It sped things up quite a bit. The whole process got worse with time. It was like a crescendo of pain.
They started with my lower back. It doesn't have much hair, but it does have enough to frighten small children and to classify as a xeric shrubland under WWF definitions (not the wrestling one...well, maybe them too). It felt like pulling scotch tape off your skin, except worse. So I was lying there prostrate, all proud of myself. "This isn't so bad," I thought, "I don't see what the big deal is about." On a scale of "one" to "physical contact with D-Rock," where "one" is a minor irritation and "physical contact with D-Rock" is the ultimate in human suffering, I'd give it a "being in the same room as D-Rock."
Next they moved to my upper back. If I had to qualify this as a biome, I'd say it was a taiga. Things got a lot more painful. Imagine ripping a Band-Aid...I'm sorry, adhesive bandage...off at full adhesive potential. Except worse. Repeatedly. It sucked. But still not horrible, really. It was at this point that I heard several of the phrases I've been trained as a med student not to say: "oops," "huh...," and "you're a bleeder." Yep. On our previous scale, I would give it a "talking to D-Rock face to face."
I was actually able to see the progress now, since it reached the back of my shoulders. "Pretty good," I thought. Until I watched the blood slowly oozing out of the holes where my hair used to be. It was gross. It stopped quickly, fortunately. Or unfortunately, since I didn't get a blood soaked shirt.
Finally they moved on to the frontal shoulders and upper chest. The rain forest. It hurt. A lot. It's like having all the hairs in the hairiest part of your body ripped out. Wait...that's exactly what happened. They didn't do the "1, 2, 3, rip" thing, so it was a little nicer (expecting pain makes it worse). In the all important scale, it would get "smelling D-Rock and almost being forced to touch him in order to catch your balance, but then deciding to fall face first into the floor as a better alternative."
And it was done. There I was, finished and shiny and smooth. At least on my back and shoulders. I was left with this cool Austin Powers-esque widows peak of hair on my chest. It looked pretty good. Instead of paying the king's ransom for a Gadabout waxing, I decided to shave it. Which proved exceptionally difficult. The hairs go in totally random directions, so you can't just shave one way. But it managed to get done.
So I stood there in my hairless splendor. My glowing white skin getting sunlight for the first time in years - no more canopy of protection. I was smooth...for about 24 hours. Here's a fun fact that you may not know: some people react poorly to waxing. Very poorly. Especially those with dark hair and light skin. See, for example, me. Every hair they had removed was replaced by a glorious whitehead. It was horrible. i looked like a pubescent teenager on steroids. They itched and hurt constantly. Disgusting.
Here I am, 72 hours later and all the whiteheads have become red bumps. Still disgusting, but better. By cruise time I should be healed. I hope. Otherwise the other sailors will get to see the finest rash ever to sail the seven seas. Yarr...
I also have scurvy.
That's the end of my tale, mostly because I need to study. Maybe I can elaborate more on the reaction some other time. Probably not. I'd show pictures, but they are too revolting. At least, too revolting to show for free. You gots ta pay for that kind of action. The things i do for fashion...
In other news:
What the fuck?
Yes, I actually did go through with it. Yes it hurt. Before I go into the details, I'd like to address the common question I keep getting. Namely, "why did you do it?" I figured it would be obvious - hair removal. Why else would I do it? Fun? That certainly wasn't fun. If you think that's fun, I'm giving you the big "302.83" stamp right across the forehead. I suppose I also did it because it's funny. How many guys do you know who have been waxed? Just my man Steve Carell. Stevey, I feel your pain. And that was funny, right? Kelly Clarkson!!
So I arrive at the Artistic Beauty College (the only thing funnier than being waxed is being waxed by amateur students) full of vim and vigor. Excited and scared about what would unfold. The first thing that happens is the receptionist informing me that the students don't wax guy chests. Why, I enquire. Liability reasons, she answers. I scratch my head, confused. Is that area more dangerous, I ask. It's just liability, she replies. Good thing she knew what she was talking about - it's a good way to instill confidence in your patient.
I think she was just intimidated by the glorious mane proudly bursting forth from under my shirt (I wore a white shirt in the hopes of bleeding, by the way). Seriously, I was like Gossamer before. I had just assumed half my body mass was hair and that after the waxing I'd be like three feet tall and 30 pounds. She was probably worried they wouldn't have enough wax. Now that I think about it, I should've donated the shedding to Locks of Love. Anyway, i was a little upset by this new information. but later I'd come to appreciate their lack of chest services.
When I got back there, I was informed of the "real" reason they wouldn't do chest. My waxer, a woman by the name of Mercedes, told me that there is no clear "end of chest" distinction on dudes. Some guys want her to go "all the way down," which the students aren't comfortable with. I'm not even comfortable hearing that. I said I wouldn't want below the waistline and I'd pay more, but she still refused. Thankfully. I still think there must be another reason.
She she tag-teamed me with some other chick (how often do I get to say that?) since the other woman's appointments were no-shows and she was bored. It sped things up quite a bit. The whole process got worse with time. It was like a crescendo of pain.
They started with my lower back. It doesn't have much hair, but it does have enough to frighten small children and to classify as a xeric shrubland under WWF definitions (not the wrestling one...well, maybe them too). It felt like pulling scotch tape off your skin, except worse. So I was lying there prostrate, all proud of myself. "This isn't so bad," I thought, "I don't see what the big deal is about." On a scale of "one" to "physical contact with D-Rock," where "one" is a minor irritation and "physical contact with D-Rock" is the ultimate in human suffering, I'd give it a "being in the same room as D-Rock."
Next they moved to my upper back. If I had to qualify this as a biome, I'd say it was a taiga. Things got a lot more painful. Imagine ripping a Band-Aid...I'm sorry, adhesive bandage...off at full adhesive potential. Except worse. Repeatedly. It sucked. But still not horrible, really. It was at this point that I heard several of the phrases I've been trained as a med student not to say: "oops," "huh...," and "you're a bleeder." Yep. On our previous scale, I would give it a "talking to D-Rock face to face."
I was actually able to see the progress now, since it reached the back of my shoulders. "Pretty good," I thought. Until I watched the blood slowly oozing out of the holes where my hair used to be. It was gross. It stopped quickly, fortunately. Or unfortunately, since I didn't get a blood soaked shirt.
Finally they moved on to the frontal shoulders and upper chest. The rain forest. It hurt. A lot. It's like having all the hairs in the hairiest part of your body ripped out. Wait...that's exactly what happened. They didn't do the "1, 2, 3, rip" thing, so it was a little nicer (expecting pain makes it worse). In the all important scale, it would get "smelling D-Rock and almost being forced to touch him in order to catch your balance, but then deciding to fall face first into the floor as a better alternative."
And it was done. There I was, finished and shiny and smooth. At least on my back and shoulders. I was left with this cool Austin Powers-esque widows peak of hair on my chest. It looked pretty good. Instead of paying the king's ransom for a Gadabout waxing, I decided to shave it. Which proved exceptionally difficult. The hairs go in totally random directions, so you can't just shave one way. But it managed to get done.
So I stood there in my hairless splendor. My glowing white skin getting sunlight for the first time in years - no more canopy of protection. I was smooth...for about 24 hours. Here's a fun fact that you may not know: some people react poorly to waxing. Very poorly. Especially those with dark hair and light skin. See, for example, me. Every hair they had removed was replaced by a glorious whitehead. It was horrible. i looked like a pubescent teenager on steroids. They itched and hurt constantly. Disgusting.
Here I am, 72 hours later and all the whiteheads have become red bumps. Still disgusting, but better. By cruise time I should be healed. I hope. Otherwise the other sailors will get to see the finest rash ever to sail the seven seas. Yarr...
I also have scurvy.
That's the end of my tale, mostly because I need to study. Maybe I can elaborate more on the reaction some other time. Probably not. I'd show pictures, but they are too revolting. At least, too revolting to show for free. You gots ta pay for that kind of action. The things i do for fashion...
In other news:
What the fuck?
posted by Montgomery at 10:25 AM
2 Comments:
Glad my pain bring you pleasure, 302.84. Branjelina...good cover. I've used that one too much, people are getting suspicious. And now I can't use it for actual Branjelina events. I'm like the boy who cried Branjelina.
Hey, I don't mind the hair loss. I'm just so very cold now. And in my experience, transvestites usually come first.
Here's what a dork I am: I looked the code up first. And I myself would fall under 307.46, FYI
Combination of "Montgomery" scratching himself all over, complaining about his injured ass bone, and watching him trying to play ping pong = hilarious...ly sad
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