The deed is done, and I’m here to report. Loosely. There was no screaming (at least none that I noticed) and no tears (perhaps if I could’ve I would’ve–we’ll never know). For the more hirsute I expect there would have been both. I will admit to numerous sudden sharp intakes of breath.
For those who have never done it, let me set the stage. First I was told to have a seat, it wouldn’t be long. After about five minutes, a woman appeared with a clipboard in hand and–standing no more than three feet from me–bellowed my name… “for a Brazilian?” A hush fell over the waiting room, broken only by the roar of stifled sniggers as I got up to follow. I was expecting a cell–given that I was being led to a torture chamber, but it was a pleasant enough room. Actually it looked more like a doctor’s exam room than anything else. That gave a nice, clinical atmosphere to the setting. There was the raised bed/table with a lovely paper sheet and a fluffy pillow, and, as the woman pointed out, a towel for privacy. I was instructed what to take off, and told to lie down. As she left the
cell room she said, “I’ll be right close by.” I don’t know why that was supposed to be helpful. To her credit, she didn’t say she would return shortly. In fact, she returned about twenty minutes later, after giving me ample time to ponder all the possible answers to the question in my head: What the hell am I doing here?
I’ve always hated elevator music. I assume everybody does. I can’t help wondering why they play it? Perhaps to discourage people from riding up and down until their favourite song finishes. Anyway, the next worst kind of music is New Age Spa. Unlike the elevator, however, you can’t just get off at the next floor when you are lying on a bed/table with only a towel “for privacy.” So after twenty minutes of the musical version of water torture, the woman returned.
“Have you had this done before?” she asked. “No,” I answered. “You mean people actually come back and do it again?” She gave me a look that said eye roll, without actually moving here eyes. Then she explained what she was going to do, which consisted basically of ‘pour on hot wax, yank it off.’ She didn’t actually pour the hot wax on; she slathered it on. That was no drama. Nor was the little wait until it cooled down. Then it happened, without warning. Rrrrrrip! O.M.D. By the time I realised I was still alive, and in the same little room, she had slathered on the next load of wax. This time, I thought, I’ll be ready for it. Yeah, right. Like we’ll be ready for Armageddon. Anyway, this little routine–slather, cool, Rrrrrrip–continued for a couple days. Then it was over. The woman smiled widely, “Well that was the easiest first-timer I ever had,” she said as she walked out of the room. MM