Urban Thought Collective

So the lovely young lady that I’m dating recently decided that she wanted to attend cosmetology school. I was thinking, “Ok…cool…do you. Sounds like a great idea.” Sista-girl already has a degree in communications and does very well for herself as an advertising account executive, but has just decided to strive for something about which she is passionate. I can dig that. Other than the notion that maybe she’ll be able to cut my hair when it’s all said and done, I hadn’t really given it much thought from a “what’s in it for me?” perspective until last week. Oh sure, we had to adjust our nightly phone calls to fit around her class schedule, but that’s no big deal.

Like any other trade, they break in the new students with a good deal of theory work before they turn them loose on any live bodies. Sometimes she’ll practice styling on that mannequin head that she keeps atop a tripod when I’m visiting, but I was pretty secure in the feeling that we were miles away from my appearance being altered at her hands. This fleeting thought drifting in and out of the chasms of my mind, I’d imagine myself Denzel Washington’s Bleek Gilliam telling her Cynda Williams’ Clarke Betancourt in the Spike Lee classic “Mo Betta Blues”: “Wait…look…Baby…just ’cause we’re seeing each other has nothing to do with…now…I think you’ve got potential, but it takes years not months…,” if ever a trial haircut should come up. She hates that movie, by the way.

But, as any good woman is wont to do on occasion, she threw me a curve the other day. “You should come in on Wednesday and let me wax your chest,” she offered, having just completed that section of the curriculum. Do what? To my what? I had no canned answer prepared for this one and she must’ve known it. While I stuttered and stammered, mind racing and struggling for the words, she started in with the whole psychology bit, suggesting that the end result would really accentuate all of the hard work I’d been putting in at the gym. She was more subtle and downright calculating with the insinuation that I should feel no pressure to go through with it, especially if I couldn’t deal with the pain. See there? She had to take it to manhood. Nevermind that besides the potential pain involved (I too have seen The 40-year-old Virgin), I was struggling with perception issue involved and whether or not this was not just toeing the line or completely crossing the “loofah threshold” (n: The line where “cleaning” oneself becomes “grooming” oneself, and which, once crossed, does not allow a return to the other side. Esquire Magazine, The Vocabulary, March 2009). What’s more? Couldn’t somebody hang the “metrosexual” tag on me then?

That’s okay though. I’m quite secure in my masculinity and neither I, nor any other self-respecting man can back down to a challenge of one’s manhood. “Uh..ok. Sure…,” was the tepid response that came out of my mouth. I dug a little deeper and re-inforced that with, “YEAH, ok…I can do that,” much more bass in my voice this time. And so it was set. I would be getting my chest waxed which shall set into motion all of the events that are to follow, heretofore, in this blog.

Wednesday, 5:30pm
I arrived for my appointment on time, having downed a Fruitista Freeze on the way over to combat the 95 degree heat. They had me sign some sort of waiver at the front desk. No big deal, I thought, they just want a way out if I for some reason am not happy with the end result and try to get upset. Never once did I think that this might be some underlying danger warning. After a few moments I was retrieved from the lobby by Ms. Cosmetologist-in-Training and led to a room where the aestheticians do their thing. I detoured momentarily to the men’s room, suddenly feeling the urge to go. Surely, it was all of the water and that Fruitista Freeze that I sucked down all in an effort to stay properly hydrated during this heat wave.

5:45pm
After some brief Q & A, I was asked to remove my shirt in this rather frigid room with a half a dozen women looking on, and trying to contain their smiles. On a table across the room, there was a lady getting her eyebrows done who looked up long enough and said just loud enough for me to hear, “He’s a big one!” Getting my ear-hustle on a few moments later, I heard her talking about how loud her husband screamed when she had him come in for the same “procedure”.

5:55pm
I again complained about how cold it was, so they brought me a blanket to cover my legs. Recall that it was 95 degrees outside so I was wearing shorts and sandals with my short-sleeved, button-down linen shirt. Maybe it wasn’t that cold and this was just another symptom of the nerves because as they prepped my torso for the festivities that would ensue I was starting to feel like the star of a Flowmax commercial. But I’m a man and I’ve got to keep any whining to a minimum, so I decided to forgo another visit to the men’s room so that they could get this show on the road.

6:05pm
I’ve now been thoroughly coached by the aesthetician in charge, and my girl, who would be her assistant about how things would go down and what I should expect. Funny thing, those expectations. To somebody else, running the stadium steps of the Rose Bowl in their entirety might sound like pure hell, but to me, not so much. I guess the same holds true here, as a room full of women looked on with excitement and anticipation as they administered the hot wax on my stomach. Now, suffice to say that I’m not exactly looking like Teen Wolf lying here on the table with the bright lights beating down on me, but I don’t have the smooth skin of, say, my 9-year-old son either. In a motion so quick as to rival the bat speed of Manny Ramirez the first strip of hair follicles were ripped out of my unsuspecting skin. There was a little numbness. The room got really quiet. I think I’m okay. Oh no, now the nerve endings in that region have come back to life in full force. The collective gasp from all of the ladies in the room was as loud as a sonic boom when after taking a breath, I spoke in a very measured tone. “That wasn’t that bad.” I was lying.

6:30pm
With each application of the wax and subsequent pull, I kept it together. Somehow. “We’re more than halfway done. You’re doing a great job,” I was told. I was on my back staring at the ceiling so I couldn’t tell just how much progress had been made, but tried to figure it out by the fact that they were now up near the pectoral region, one working on my left side while the other worked on my right. The pain was pretty intense at this point as I contemplated what Brother Al Green must’ve felt like during that fateful grits incident. Although I was again imagining myself as Denzel (Private Trip of the 54th Regimen in the classic “Glory” this time, not showing any emotion as he was flogged for some perceived indiscretion), I must not have been doing as good a job as I thought. As I looked around the room, I could see that the giddiness once on the countenances of the ladies looking on in the room had begun to change to looks of concern. At the end of this circuitous gaze, my eyes decided to disobey the direct order and caught a look at my bare torso, which had begun to bear a shade of red that I didn’t know was possible through brown skin. Their credibility was now completely gone. I was now Phil Jackson signaling to Steve Javy for a 20 second timeout. I’d take that bathroom break after all. I had to put on and button up my shirt before heading down the hall. If I didn’t know better I’d swear to you that the navy colored linen was sticking to an open wound as I ambled down the hallway. I psyched myself up in the mirror before returning and told myself that I can do this. I’m a MAN! I refrained from the Tarzanian chest thumping however.

Removing the shirt upon my return felt like gauze being removed in order that said wound might be re-dressed.

6:55pm
They called themselves crossing the proverbial T’s and dotting the proverbial I’s as they again proclaimed “almost done”, swiping waxed strips from around my left nipple and then right in unison. I tried to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head, concentrating with every fabric of my being not to make a sound, and admit weakness in these decreasingly unfriendly confines. I must’ve started to hallucinate because I could swear that I was now Mel Gibson’s William Wallace being told by the torturing hatchet man with the hood on that this pain and suffering would end if I merely pledged allegiance to King Longshanks and asked for mercy. “Mercy, William. Mercy…,” I thought I heard the ladies whispering. I don’t know what my face must’ve looked like to them at this point, but if the score to this horror film were audible its loud, operatic tune would surely have drowned out my silent screams.

She took me to see “The Hangover” after she got out of class, clearly employing the “laughter is the best medicine” theory in an attempt to console me. It hurt to laugh as I sat in the back row of that theater with my shirt completely open and exposed to the conditioned air that I couldn’t really feel anyway.

Destah Owens is a single father of two from Northern California and proud UCLA Bruin who travels the world for his job as a computer engineer. His blog, “Soufflés in Saigon,” is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.