Okay,
…it’s been about ten days, and I think the North Korean sadist lady can’t hurt me anymore, so I will chronicle this, my Faustian follicle folly.
Ten days earlier:
Me: This warm wax actually gives a nice, soothing feeli… JESUS CLOTTED CREAM CHRIST ON A CRUTCH I COULDN’T BE IN ANY MORE PAIN!
I AM BLIND! ALL I CAN SEE IS SEARING WHITE!
A FALLEN ANGEL OF LIGHT HAS REMOVED MY SKIN AND REPLACED IT WITH STINGING CENTEPEDES MADE OF ACID AND HATRED!
Ten days earlier +1 hour:
Me (two pounds heavier with fur and fluids):
What the Hell, this place looks interesting. I’ll try it. It’ll be an experience.
——
Ignorance was never more blissful.
I’m a hairy guy: Robin Williams hairy. But I am neither a back model nor gay, so the thought of a back waxing never came up until I started wondering what hot yoga would be like if I was not wearing a permanent gorilla suit.
Lady torturer aestheticist explained that my unusually thick, back-facing rug likely did not come from my Italian half heritage (“Italian guy have all hair on arms!”). Rather, my Manx ancestors likely begged a demon to give them warmth in the middle of the Irish Sea. Hence: Celt Pelt.
The defoliation chamber looked clean, though the door seemed to be soundproofed. This cart gave me pause:
Whatever, I have tattoos, and girls have square inches of hairea waxed without dying. I’ll get square feet waxed. It’ll be fine.
The huge, warm, gooey Bandaid thing actually felt really good on my back, and Ms. Evil was making pleasant small talk in a comforting tone.
After the first ripping, I was instantly sorry I was born and that I had ordered the full back and shoulders package. I was sure all layers of skin had been removed. There is blood spraying onto the ceiling.
It felt a lot like a tattoo, a tattoo being applied to a severely burned area with a ten needle.
Then another ripping. And another. Another, this one not quite letting go of my back like an unwilling cat that needs to go outside clinging to a couch. I’d rather be that couch.
But after a few more rips, the endorphins kick in and the initial areas start to only throb.
This whole time, I’m trying to continue Smalltalk with Mrs. Satan. The conversation freezes occasionally, a lot.
But I lived and slowly made my way through the rest of my week trying to not let anything near my back, because a layer of my skin actually has been removed. I’m sensitive to heat, light, and all molecules.
Here is your obligatory after / before comparison pic:
Is yoga easier now? No.
Is the pain:permanence ratio better than a tattoo? Hell no.
Will I go back after the six week regrowth period to endure to worst pain I’ve ever experienced outside an emergency room?
Yes.
TRY THIS, IT'S AWFUL! 