The boys from Brazil

When I was still a heathen bachelor, I was under the impression that the term “Brazilian wax” referred to the provenance of the wax or, at the very least, the ethnicity of the waxers (hopefully from the same probinsya as Giselle Bundchen).

But after two years of domestic servitude, I now have a better understanding of the sacrifices made in the name of aesthetics. So, for my once-fellow heathens who plan to get a Brazilian wax treatment with the hope that they will be serviced by a Giselle Bundchen, here is your reality check: A thin strip of hot wax is spread over the hair in your pubic region. A cloth or paper strip is then pressed on top of the wax. Then the wax is quickly ripped off against the direction of your hair growth. Blood-curdling screams follow. 

And Giselle Bundchen fails to even make a guest appearance.

I am quite content to allow the hair in my pubic region to develop into a thriving eco-system until the bacteria down there develop the technology for space travel. After all, I have grown quite attached to my pubic hair as I only entered puberty 17 years ago. That is not to say that the unabated growth in my southern region has not been without consequence: only fully forested men know of the ineffable pain when involuntary expanding flesh causes your pubic hair to snag your bikini briefs. (So my three female readers, when you see men adjusting their crotches in public, that is not an act of lasciviousness. That is a survival skill.)

Moreover, I was worried that if I did deforest my pink part region, I would be offending millions of years of evolutionary biology and intelligent design. If you think about it, there must be a reason as to why nature has allowed a wiry path of black forest to flourish down there: perhaps my pubic hair was there to be a breeding ground for new scientific discoveries or to mask my identity during the Oblation Run or, when worse comes to worst, to buffer a fall from a four-story building.

Anyway, it wasn’t like I could boast about my Brazilian by prancing around in a thong on a noontime variety show (as the MTRCB has issued explicit orders for me not to do so). And the only people who would be able to appreciate my aesthetic improvement would be my wife, my yaya (not by choice) and the man in the mirror.

On the other hand, millions of years to of evolutionary biology and intelligent design cursed me with a geometrically increasing bald spot since my late 20s. You would think that intelligent design would be smart enough to have some of my hair migrate from the least visible to the most visible region of my anatomy.

Then I came to a realization: I had to get a Brazilian wax. 

And, no, this was not a way for me to offend intelligent design. This was a way for me to spite it. “Hey, my genetic ancestors,” I protest, “here’s what I think of millions of years of inefficient breeding!”

And, you know what? We could all use a little change of pace in our humdrum fully forested lives. We could use a little more space inside the seat of our pants. My wife and I would enjoy a change of scenery and I could always moonlight as a paid circus performer. But, more importantly, the threat of bacteria overpopulation in my pubic region might lead to civil war.

So I had made my decision. To make tampo against my genes. To prevent nuclear war inside my briefs. To make money as the hairless pubic region man.

I kissed my baby and my wife, took one last picture of my fully furnished groin, moved my bowel movements, and boarded the car for my date with denudation.

Strip Tease

Wearing only a facemask, a pair of gloves and a cape, I discreetly made my way to The Strip Ministry of Waxing, which is snugly ensconced in the second floor of Serendra, Bonifacio High Street at Bonifacio Global City.

The Strip’s store window mentions its international franchises: Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Dubai, Jakarta, London… and Manila. “Amazing,” I thought. “There are millions and millions of people who want to spite intelligent design.”

As I sat down in the waiting room waiting for my treatment, my mind was flooded with pubic hair panic: the first thought was that of sex. Which sex would be giving me the wax to end all waxes? Would it be a male, female or anything else within the sexual continuum? Any sex that would be deforesting me had a built-in set of pluses and minuses. However, I did not wish to even contemplate getting waxed by a waxer who has (or had) the same set of genitals as mine lest my own genitals retreat to the pit of my stomach. And, regardless of which sex would be giving me Brazil’s finest, if there was going to be any manipulation of the genitals involved, the waxer would be required to sign a confidentiality disclosure agreement, quit claim and waiver form by my wife.

The next thought I had was of propriety. I realized that whomever was going to perform the waxing has literally seen hundreds upon hundreds of genitals as part of her (oh please, let it be a her) profession. Now what if my genitals were (God forbid) not up to par? If I saw the slightest cringe of shock or smirk, then the rest of my anatomy would fail to cooperate. Maybe I could wear my underwear during the Brazilian waxing? Maybe they could perform the waxing with the lights off? Or maybe they could just cover my face during the waxing so I could remain anonymous?

Then I also had to consider crotch support. Was it appropriate to wear underwear after the waxing was over? Or was it more appropriate to just “go commando” (a.k.a. walang salawal)? Should I just have borrowed sanitary napkins from my wife? Although the absence of pubic hair would mean less snagging incidents, it might also mean that my newly deforested pubic region might get too intimate with my underwear. And we do not want a repeat of the diaper incident that happened before I left the hospital 30-odd years ago.

And the last thought that crossed my mind was that of posterity. What would The Strip do with all that stripped pubic hair? Do they use it to create artwork? Do they use it as material for flotation devices? Or do they just donate it to a bald man’s charity?

Curiouser and curiouser. 

De-Briefing

My problems with pubic hair (and the eventual lack of it) was addressed by Tab Abad, The Strip’s managing director. And her explanation of the waxing process was more thorough than the platforms of some of our presidential candidates.

Sign on the dotted line. The Boyzilian wax (the signature name for male waxing at The Strip) starts off with a comprehensive customer profile that includes your medical history, your astrological sign and a list of your mortal sins. After signing off on a waxing indemnity form, The Striperellas (yes, that is what they are really called) hand over a Virgin Forest Guide book (I am not making this up), especially if it is your “first time.” Although I was considered a Brazilian virgin, I promised my wife that there would be no virgin sacrifices in The Strip without her permission.

Be genital with me. The Strip’s all-female therapists (yes, my once-fellow heathens, we can now all breathe a sign of relief and allow our testicles to descend back to where they belong) had undergone arduous boot camp training before even servicing their first client. In fact, they have had a battery of tests that include theory, practical and written exams (although I don’t think the Striperellas sign off on their work). They have ripped away hair from the genitals of thousands of mannequins and live models.  

“We even waxed a guy who came in with just one ball!” she giggled. “But I was teasing my therapists, ‘He will not get 50 percent off!’”

“That being the case,” I retorted, “when you wax me, I guess for me you’ll have to charge extra!” I laughed heartily, until I realized that my joke implied that I had three testicles.

“How do the therapists feel after having seen hundreds and hundreds of genitals?” I wondered. “Does it eventually require counseling?”

“For them, its like, ‘You have hair, I like to remove hair!’” Tab replied enthusiastically. “They don’t get excited seeing private parts, they get excited removing hair”

“It’s good that somebody’s excited during the Boyzilian wax.”

X marks the spot. The menu of their waxing services included an XX (a.k.a. full bikini) or an XXX (a.k.a. labia plus shape. When I read about this service, I had to double check an anatomy book to find out if I had a body part called “shape”) or (breathe deeply…) an XXXX (a.k.a. All off). When a 30-plus gentleman like myself sees a series of Xs in succession, we often think it is a movie classification. But apparently, “X” in waxing refers to the amount of hair they will strip from your pubic region. So “X” is equal to roughly a finger’s width; “XX” is equal to two fingers’ width; and “XXXX” is equal to your soul.

I also found out that The Strip was charging different prices for male and female waxes. Surprisingly, the male wax was more expensive than that of the female wax. I thought that the price differential had to do with the amount of work involved: For a female wax there was only one dimension involved, while for a male wax there are three dimensions involved. It was either that or the additional hazard pay for the therapists to work on male virgin forests. But I didn’t really want to ask further because they might charge more for my three testicles. 

Shape of my art. The Striperellas are not only excited about ripping pubes from their roots, they are also excited about creating works of art. They have been trained to shape the remains of your newly-manicured forest into a heart, a triangle, even an arrow that points either up or down (or wherever the arrowpoint will do the least damage) or the letter T. And, for those men of exceptional girth, they can even spell out the whole alphabet.

But what speaks even more of their artistry is that all the artwork is done freehand. They do not use stencils, they do not use a Pentel pen, they do not use Photoshop. “However,” Tab clarified, “the shape that they come up with is dependent on the quality of your hair.”

Funny, I thought we all had the same quality of hair down there. Unless some of you have decided that you should go straight.

“And based on the feedback of our male clients,” Tab added, “they say that a Boyzilian wax makes your penis look bigger.”

“So, where’s my treatment room?”

The Strip Ministry of Waxing has branches in Serendra, Bonifacio High Street (0917-8472112) and in Greenbelt 5 (0908-8810588). You can also check them out online at www.strip.com.sg.

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