Male-grooming

I recently watched one of those dreadful programmes on the television dealing with various types of make-overs. It had everything from the simple hair-style changes and teeth-whitening, to the more extreme elongating of the phallus or reconstructing of the face to make you look like some hybrid of Cher and the late MJ (RIP). After  a little while a very informative segment on anal bleaching was showed – a big hit with homosexuals and porn-stars – where as you no doubt guessed it with its aptly named treatment, the anus is bleached. Problematic if you’re a person of colour?

But I digress. Soon after the white-washing of the anal cavity, the show shifted to a somewhat more psychologically torturous topic. Male-grooming. I am not talking here about the traditional nose-hair trimming and the occasional styling of the facial hair. Nor am I concerned here with the more metro-sexual habits of shaping the eye-brows or trimming one’s pubis. I am talking about the very intimidating and masochistic act of the back-sack-and-crack-wax. Painful? I have never been stupid enough or sufficiently envious of a smooth, bald arsehole to try it, but it does not take a grand imagination to decide that this is a hideous practice.

For those of you unable to imagine what exactly this even more aptly named waxing treatment entails, read further. But perhaps grab a receptacle in which to vomit or a tissue to wipe those empathetic tears. This involves the man – and probably a butch lady once or twice – lying face-down on a table. Boiling hot wax is poured onto and spread evenly over the back. This is done first I believe to really keep you in a state of fearful anxiety, just wondering what might become of your by now, shrivelled little package.  The ripping sound is only beaten by the shouts of agony of the owner of the semi-shorn back.

Now the crack. If, you can imagine filling your eyes with burning oil, or attempting to relieve a series of paper-cuts with some vinegar, you are far off my friend. Once again this is not an experiential account, but rather the TV man’s pain I felt.  The hot wax is smeared over the crack, and the hair so quickly removed from its once tranquil home, the eviction notice was not even read. Through the waxee’s cries of impending death and his drifting in between states of consciousness, the waxer quickly moves to the testicles. Even hotter wax (seemingly) is poured all over the balls or sack.  If you are still conscious, you might sense the sick delight of the waxer, who is no doubt a divorcee. Rip. The hair is gone. Some skin too. Pain, as the tears fall uncontrollably.

I would rather be hairy.