wax on, wax off.

As I sit there, I text my wife:

“Listening to the girls yuck it up at the salon. What have I become?”

For the record, I haven’t been to a barbershop or had my hair cut professionally since Jimmy Carter was president. My mother—whose grandfather was a barber—did it for decades (and did a great job), and then after I started having her buzz it short with clippers, I eventually took over and now do it myself. I have also cutting my sons’ hair since they were born, although the older one has finally reached the age where he wants a pro to do it.

Tween.

So for the most part, I’ve missed out on the barbershop/salon experience. Sure, I’ve seen the commercials for the movies, but it’s not the same as the real thing. I don’t quite get exactly what the “girls” at Sona Bella are laughing and giddy about—something to do with the arrival of new hair extensions making it “like Christmas”—but I can appreciate the sense of camaraderie.

“Rosa is running a little late,” apologizes Christina at the desk. “I’m actually a few minutes early,” I say, happy to sit there and be entertained by the banter going on in the main salon. Sure, I’m a bit self-conscious about being a guy in the doll house, but it’s not like I’m there for a mani/pedi. Actually, Sona Bella is a full-service salon, offering a variety of spa treatments, from hair cuts to pedicures to massage to—

“Hey Ray,” Rosa calls to me, then apologizes for being on time. She leads me upstairs to a small windowless room with a massage table in the middle of it, and instructs me to remove my shirt. Being super self-conscious, I do it quickly without making eye contact and lay face down on the table.

“Ready?” she asks, the soothing strains of New Agey-type music wafting in the background.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” I say, trying to relax

I hear her preparing and soon feel a warm substance on my back, which she tenderly spreads. She  then gently presses a small cloth into the warmth and then, without a word—

—RIPS A HUGE SWATH OF MY HAIR FROM MY FLESH!

That’s right, I’m here for a back waxing.

And courtesy of The 40-Year-Old Virgin, you know how a bit of manscaping can go.

[Warning: NSFW language, otherwise hysterical]

 

 

Yes World, I am a man with a hairy back.

The good news is that Rosa doesn’t yell, “We’re going to need more wax!” because she’s a pro, but I know that’s got to be going through her mind. Granted, my back is nowhere near as hirsute as Steve Carell’s chest, but the hair that is—or was—there has always bothered me.

I’ll never forget back in high school, sunning myself on the sands of Walnut Beach in Milford with my buddy Milo, how we used to point and laugh at guys with hairy backs. “Hey Sasquatch, put a shirt on!” we’d half-whisper. It wasn’t so funny a few years later when I noticed the darker hairs sprouting on my shoulders, and it was even less amusing when they spread across my back like invasive weeds. Suddenly, I was that Bigfoot on the beach. Like a mistitled Alanis Morrisette song, I was now the shaggy oddball who needed to keep his shirt on at the water park.

It made no sense to me—my father has about as much hair on his entire body as I do on one forearm. Ditto his father. My mother’s father, did have a lot of hair on his chest, but I don’t remember a single follicle on his back. I was a furry freak!

For the first few years, I thought about shaving it off, but it’s not something you can really do yourself and I didn’t really have anyone to do it for me. To her credit, my wife has said it’s never bothered her (and I believe her), but I never felt right about asking her to take a razor to me. I looked at other things such as Nair or laser hair removal, but they either seemed too nasty or expensive. I wanted to believe in various miracle hair-removal products I saw TV ads for, but almost all of them turned out to just be shams. Just keeping a shirt on seemed like the most practical solution.

But it wasn’t really fixing the problem (or my embarrassment), just hiding it. I couldn’t not be there with myself every day while I showered, so it wasn’t something I could just ignore or forgot about. I guess I’m  shallow or a Narcissist or whatever, but knowing it was there just always bothered me. [*insert gag-me-with-a-hairy-spoon emoticon*].

So, there wasn’t any one particular incident that pushed me over the edge—although I do remember my son pointing at my uncovered back, screaming “The horror, the horror!” and running off—but about a year ago, I finally decided I couldn’t stand it any more. I had a few friends who had been waxed and said it was all good. I had nothing to lose, you know, other than acres of unwanted hair. I did a bit of research (as I do for everything, right down to finding the best place to park at the mall), and after discovering Sona Bella, I went Bo Jackson and just did it. (Look it up, kiddies.)

Although I’m sure it’d be much more fun to picture for you, I don’t scream or yell or whimper like Steve Carell as Rosa just tears swatch after swatch of my hair from my body. Despite being a less-than-macho desk jockey, I have a pretty high tolerance for pain. (True story: In 9th grade, I rode my bike home with a broken ankle.) Although ripping hundreds of my hairs out by their roots stings a bit—and it really does hurt—it’s not enough to make me cry out. It’s sorta like being slapped: pain for a second or so, and then it’s over. You also get used to it quick. Plus, it’s on my back, which isn’t a particularly sensitive region. I’m not sure I’d be so cavalier if I was having the short and curlies ripped from my bikini zone.

Rosa has told me she’s seen all sorts of reactions, from almost none (like me) to the overly dramatic (screamers and cursers that would make any Turret’s patient proud) to the unique (one anonymous soul who she said just used to bite down on a towel to deal with the pain).

The funny part is that aside from the unnatural act of yanking my hairs out in bunches, it’s as casual as if we were sitting around having tea (although I’d avoid the fuzzy crumpets).

Rosa is definitely “a pisser,” as they say. She keeps me entertained throughout the ordeal, telling me about her kids, her vacations or how she might get another tattoo. Understanding how the beauty shop thing works, I dish about my life … you know, just with every few sentences punctuated by the sound of my body hair being torn out in clumps.

Before I know it, I’m done (and probably a few pounds lighter). I say thanks and go downstairs to pay. Now that I understand salon etiquette, I’m also sure to tip—the first time I didn’t know any better, so I doubled down when I went back. Although I do admit, it does seem weird to have to add a gratuity after being physically abused for 30 minutes. But hey, great service is great service!

Although I’ve had my pelt removed a number of times now, I still can’t get used to the sensation of putting on a shirt immediately afterward, especially the first time. I never realized that for all those years, the hair had been keeping the fabric away from my body, and suddenly, there was the cotton, flat up against my skin! Weird.

Even weirder was when I got home the first time. Looking unabashedly at my less hairy self in the mirror, I noticed that I had a lot more beauty marks and moles than I thought. It was also odd getting in the shower the first time—the hot water being able to actually hit the skin of my back was a bit uncomfortable to start.

But hey, I feel better about myself now, which is the bottom line. I’m back hairless and proud!

And although someone may make ignorant remarks about me being a metrosexual (not that there’s anything wrong with it) or vain, it’s not like I’ve gone full Salon Boy—no mani, no pedi, no facials, no other parts waxed.

Well, not yet, anyway.

Rosa says she can clean up my eyebrows a bit. Hmm …