I’m not the biggest man-scaper out there. That doesn’t mean I don’t take care of myself. I hit the gym, clip my nails, gel my hair on special occasions, shave and shower regularly… you know, all the necessary stuff… Wow, I’ll stop right there because this is starting to feel like an eHarmony profile. (P.S.: I’d be horrible in today’s dating world!)
Let’s cut straight to the chase. Recently and for the second time in my life, I got my chest waxed. I won’t do things like manicures and pedicures, but when I’m going to spend a week or longer with my shirt frequently off, the chest hair has to go. It’s my personal choice, but I like to think the results speak for themselves.
Back to my story, remember I’m a rookie at all this, I enter the house of pain otherwise known as a spa and I’m not even sure what to do or where to go. I’m quickly ushered by the uninterested receptionist to a back room (I don’t like where this is going). The door is then shut behind me and all I see is a pot of wax being melted, jazz music being played and a muted showing of Pirates of the Caribbean on the little TV in the room.
I quickly conclude that this could possibly be a death trap at the hands of a pirate-loving saxophonist. Adding to my uneasiness is the faint sound of screams I can hear that seem to have been absorbed by the walls over years and years of hair being ripped out in the name of self-beautification. But it must be my imagination, right? At this point I’m wondering what on earth made me decide this was a good idea.
Then the door opens and a woman comes in and tells me to take my shirt off… if only it was that easy in the outside world. This must be the waxer… waxist?… whatever, I’m past caring by this point. Once topless and lying down on the gurney (easier to wheel out the bodies after?) – some wax is applied to a strip-sized area of my chest. My shoes are still on. Don’t want to get TOO comfortable, plus it gives me the ability to run away, if necessary. What a sight that would be: the Sip Advisor running half naked down the streets of downtown Vancouver with one patch of chest hair missing.
The first few strips are yanked off and it’s not a walk in the park. She must almost be finished, I think, until I take a quick look down and see that barely any progress has been made. “You have a strong pain threshold,” the waxologist tells me and I feel like a badass! She tears another strip and tears well up in my eyes, so much for being a badass.
The worst part is that Ms. Wax N’ Buff wants to have a conversation while she’s doing her job. It’s like the dentist chatting you up while their fingers and tools are in your mouth… okay dirty birdy, not that tool… As I’m in mid-reply to one of her questions, she yanks a strip of fur off my stomach and I nearly choke on my own words.
Finally, it’s over! I breathe a sigh of relief and let my guard down, until I’m splashed with alcohol. My eyes shoot open and I try valiantly to push through the burn. Then it’s time to towel off, pay my bill and leave. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am!
When I get home, I’m looking to recover from the traumatic experience… I need a drink. I drink when recovering from most things: chick flicks, the Canucks losing the playoffs (again), the mention of the word vasectomy… it’s what I do! That’s when I stumbled upon the Not So Fuzzy Navel. It seemed like perfect choice.
Drink #16: Not So Fuzzy Navel
- 1.5 oz Peach Schnapps
- Top with half Grapefruit Juice and half Orange Juice
- Garnish with Orange Wedges
The drink did its job and numbed my pain… that is until I had to do my next application of rubbing alcohol… Not to fear, loyal readers, that was followed by my next application of drinking alcohol!
Are you into mantiquing? Got any tips for me? Leave me a comment. My wife may appreciate your advice for me, more than I do!
Sip Advisor Bar Notes (3 Sips out of 5):
This is a very light drink given it’s only liquor is Peach Schnapps. The flavour was pretty good given you have peach, grapefruit and orange all coming together and I was surprised they blended so well.