Wax On, Wax Off

There is no better way to celebrate Valentine’s Day than getting a “Boyzilian” in the shape of a heart.

I admit, though, that I did have second thoughts about shaving off my virgin forest for the sake of aesthetic sensibility, especially after having to obtain all those permits from the DENR.

And if ever they did anything with my soon-to-be-manicured male patch, I would have wanted a shape that sparkled with my personality, like a thunderbolt insignia or the Voltes Five V-sign or the Green Lantern Corps ring symbol. Or maybe I should just clear up my nether region altogether so that I can leave it available for campaign advertising.

But as I pondered these designs, I could hear my southern patch speaking to me like the konsyensya from a Safeguard commercial: What have we done to deserve this? Have we ever caused you ingrown hair? Have we ever asked you for a trim and a blow dry? Have we ever caused you public humiliation (aside from the few hundred times that you’ve had to make cambio in a crowded room?). But despite their last-minute guilt trip, I quietly bade goodbye to my short hairs. And I made sure that it was quiet, especially since I did not want my waxer to think that I was talking to myself.

So there I was in the treatment room, praying the sorrowful mysteries, waiting for my wife to finish interrogating the Brazilian waxer. Despite the assurance of The Strip Ministry of Waxing that their all-female waxers were either registered nurses or nursing graduates, my wife still required my waxer to secure an NBI clearance, to get a urine test and to sign a quitclaim and waiver form. After all, the waxer would be exploring parts of my geography that my wife has not even discovered yet.

Once my waxer profusely pre-apologized to my wife before exploring my southern regions, the waxer (also known as a “Striperella,” a moniker that convinced my wife the waxer should also take a lie detector test), asked me to lie down on the treatment bed as she slipped on her latex gloves. Apparently she had to wear gloves throughout the whole procedure for hygiene purposes. You never know how toxic male nether hair can be.

I gulped. “Soooooo,” I said, twiddling my thumbs, “You will be removing all of my hair down there?” I gulped. The Striperella nodded.

A bead of cold sweat rolled down my forehead. “Before we start with the waxing,” I suggested, “shouldn’t we get to know each other a little better… maybe over a couple of drinks?”

She pulled out a hygiene pack of wet wipes, cotton buds, spatulas and a facemask. I could hear the konsyensya of my hair squeaking for dear mercy. She slipped on a pair of scissors. My eyes grew large.

I grabbed her wrist: “Please be gentle with me” I gripped her wrist tighter. “This is my first time.” The Striperella rolled her eyes. “And,” I added, “as you can probably tell, the air-conditioning in this room is very, very cold.” 

Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!

Too shy shy. After praying my act of confession, I switched on my tape recorder to record this moment for posterity. “Please walk me through the waxing process step-by-step. And for the sake of those below the age of maturity who are reading this, please use euphemisms to describe my reproductive parts.”

The Striperella cleared her voice. “Uhm, the first step she will be trim the hair if the hair is…. is… long.” She covered her mouth and giggled nervously. “Sorry, sir. I’m not used to being interviewed. Nashashy ako, e. (I’m shy).”

And here I was draped only in a towel and in an air-conditioned room where she was about to deforest my pink parts. “You’re shy!?”

The Striperella trimmed the hair around my lower region because, as most of us past adolescence know, trimming greatly improves accessibility. Despite that, she asked me to spread my legs a tad wider so she could trim away at the harder to reach pink areas. “My goodness,” I murmured while making the sign of the cross. “I haven’t spread my legs this wide since my last visit to the proctologist.”

“Think clean thoughts, think clean thoughts,” I chanted to myself mantra-like while taking deep breaths. Or else I was worried that while all the snipping was taking place, there might be some accidental snipping that would require a lot of explanation when I got home to my wife. However, they had club music playing in the background and a picture of a monkey with a towel wrapped around his waist hanging out in a sauna, which may have inadvertently affected my train of clean thoughts.

“The next step,” she said after sending my trimmed hair down a hazardous material chute, “is to identify your bikini line.” I am glad that they were taught in nursing school where my bikini line was located because they never taught me that in high school biology. Apparently, the bikini line would be the starting point from which they would strip away at my Amazon jungle.

Cutting clean. Once the male forest had been cleared of all wildlife, the Striperella lathered antiseptic all over the offending area (like I said, that area can be quite toxic). She wiped clean areas that haven’t been that sanitary since before I hit puberty. She was a brave one, I thought, venturing into crevices that even hired thugs could not be paid to break into. The only person I knew who was braver than the Striperella was my yaya. And my yaya did the dirty work without the benefit of latex gloves.

When the region had been decimated of most known forms of bacteria, the Striperella whipped out the spatula from my hygiene kit and dipped it into a vat of berry chocolate wax. She then proceeded to lather the wax concoction along the top of my bikini line. The wax felt comfortably warm against the skin.

“This is not too bad,” I smiled to myself. “I don’t know why people say it’s painful.”

“This might hurt a bit,” she said. She pressed down gently on the thin layer of wax. Then, in one swift motion, she ripped away the wax from 17 years worth of hair growth. At that moment, I discovered that my screams could shatter light bulbs.

“Are we done?” I asked in falsetto while she dabbed antiseptic over the newly eroded area.

“We’re just starting, sir.” She dipped another spatula into the vat of chocolate berry wax anew; my fingers gripped tightly against the sides of the bed. The Striperella said they were going to repeat the waxing process.

Several. Hundred. Times. 

I can now tell my father confessor that I have found an activity that can replace my self-flagellation during Holy Week.

Rip and Repeat. By the 627th time the Striperella had dutifully torn the wax from my skin, I had grown extremely introspective. I asked myself, “Lord, why have you forsaken me?”; “Sino bang galit sa akin (Who is angry with me)?”; and “Who should I vote for president?” As the Striperella traversed from the top to the sides of my bikini line, systematically turning my black forest into a naked wasteland, I began to discover certain things about myself.

• I discovered that that the sound of wax ripping from your flesh sounds very much like Velcro. At least, that’s what it felt like.

• I discovered the versatility of my vocal repertoire. I could easily transition from a caveman grunt to a mournful ululation to a rock star yelp within a few hundred rips. A hundred rips more, then I could audition for Pilipinas Got Talent.

• I discovered that I have a very high pain threshold. I heard that some of the sissy-men who have gotten waxed had to bite on their tongues or take some pain medication or hold on to their yaya’s hands during the treatment (what losers). As for me, I just had to thank my parents for years and years of corporal punishment.

• I discovered that the strips of wax resemble chocolate bars once they come off your newly naked skin. But even if those chocolate bars look edible, I promise you they are far from it. (Basta, I know.)   

• I discovered that I could now wear a bikini without embarrassment.

Getting to the point. After decimating 90 percent of my forest cover, the Striperella was now coming after the national treasures. As she dabbed a new spatula into the wax dip for the 917th time, I secretly longed for the days when my father-in-law still required me to wear a cast-iron chastity belt.

As most of us with XY chromosomes know intimately, our family jewels tend to be very sensitive. After all, we do not wear supporters to make a fashion statement. Pain is probably the last sensation we would like to experience in our southern regions. However, the waxer assured me that The Strip had a signature technique of applying wax around the family jewels that that did not require the jewels to be made out of steel, or insured, or proficient in calisthenics. 

“We try to make it as painless as possible in areas where you would probably want to experience pain the least,” she reminded me while applying wax exactly on the area that I would least like to experience pain.

“Well” I said rather stoically while holding my breath, “As long as I can still hit hose baritone notes after the wax is done, then that’s fine with me.” And the wax did reach all the way to the end. Literally. During the last part of my treatment, the Striperella had me lie on my stomach to wax my underside.

“Are you sure I have hair back there!?” I exclaimed. “Ignorance is bliss, you know? And less painful, too.”

The waxer nodded as she motioned for me to spread my legs like a straight man in a Saudi prison. She carefully painted on the wax around an area where no man, woman, animal, vegetable or mineral had ever gone before. Or would ever like to go back to again.  

But, true enough, the waxing up and down, front and back, and in and around my national treasures wasn’t as painful as I had expected. I even discovered that I could add a Swiss yodel to my vocal repertoire.

The Aftermath

When I finally gazed down at the Striperella’s heart-shaped handiwork, I understood what it meant to suffer for your art. I started to shed tears of joy. Because those were the only type of tears that I had left in me.

“And remember, Mr. Ledesma,” she stressed, “for the next 24 hours, you should not engage in strenuous exercise, you should not engage in public exhibitionism. And you should not test the surface friction of the newly waxed area no matter how curious you and your wife get.”

What? I thought. No public exhibitionism!?

Despite the inability to randomly flash civilians, the first few days being hair-free had its definite advantages: when I jogged, I could confidently wear my runner’s shorts. When I showered, the drainage of soap and water was faster and more efficient. When I walked, there was an additional spring in my step. And the reason for that additional spring was because the wax had stripped away about 10 pounds.

Before I left The Strip, I was told that I could have a fancy crystal bling-bling glued (yes, that’s right, glued) to my recently cleared area. (And then they tell me that I am not supposed to engage in public exhibitionism!?) Although it took a lot of emotional intelligence on my part, I opted to forego the additional service. Primarily because they did not have a crystal with a thunderbolt insignia on hand.

Although, you never know. One of these days, you just might happen to see me in public with flashing neon red lights in the shape of a thunderbolt piercing through the crotch area of my pants. But, please remember, that display of garishly blinking lights is for display purposes only. Unless you are my wife.

The Strip Ministry of Waxing has branches in Serendra, Bonifacio High Street (09178472112) and in Greenbelt 5 (09088810588). You can also check them out online at www.strip.com.sg. The Strip offers a 25-percent discount for all men who go to any of their branches for their first Boyzilian wax!

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For comments, suggestions, or a chocolate bar, please text PM POGI <text message> to 2948 for Globe, Smart and Sun subscribers. Or you can email ledesma.rj@gmail.com or visit www.rjledesma.net.  You can also subscribe to twitter.com/rjled610.