...in which I am a Queer Eye casualty
The show has been, well, an interesting influence on me. For one thing, Mer and I usually watch the show as soon as it comes on Tuesday nights. Sure, there are the funny bits where some poor schlub gets ridiculed on national television (at least in this case it's relatively good-natured); sure, there are the before and after shots that are simply amazing.
Little did I know that I'd take a couple small principles from the show that I'd apply in daily life. However, the net effect has been somewhat of a wash, as I'll relate below:
1. Recently, while I was in blog blackout, Mer and I went to the mall on the weekend and descended upon an "Express for Men" store (or, more accurately, the store descended upon us) where I proceeded to engage in a stereotypical gay man (or heterosexual woman) form of shopping: find what sort of coutoure works for you -- typically items not on the sale rack -- and incur some credit card debt while banishing whatever bad thoughts you had about life in an orgy of shopping.
I came away with two pairs of very nice-looking buttoned shirts (solid colors, one in a very nice deep electric blue) on sale for $20 apiece, and a surprisingly expensive pair of slightly distressed jeans to wear with them. These were actually a great purchase; I've been getting all sorts of compliments around the office about my new looks. Better than walking around in the standard engineer uniform, anyway.
But the real story is what's next:
2. Deep while we were in the throes of our depressing move, Mer and I had seen enough scenes of painful back-waxings that the thought was implanted firmly in our heads. She'd look at my back somewhat wistfully -- yes, I'm a timberwolf normally -- and say things like "well, it's your choice, and I love your back hair anyway... you could just try it and see if you like it." This is the way my wife tricks me into doing anything painful or stupid: appeal to my unfailing sense of adventure and trying new things. Very sly of her.
Bouyed by my new-found desire to wear basketball jerseys without fear and not scaring children with my Afro-styled shoulders, we make the appointment.
On the big day, the technician is a somewhat gruff French lady who ushers the both of us to her table with the pans of hot wax and the obnoxious New Age music playing over her stereo.
Already something wrong is about to happen. Everything goes quiet.
The hot wax is painful enough; but one warning sign you're in for a bit of pain has to be when the person ripping your hair out has to use one fist for leverage against your back as she uses her other hand to rip strips of hair directly out of you.
Now, I have a fairly high tolerance for pain most of the time; you steel yourself for the shock, the pain comes, the pain subsides, and then you relax.
This is altogether different, especially when she hits the areas along my spine or my neck. Mer tells me later that while she was impressed with my ability to control my pain, she could hear me breathing quite heavily with the pain shocks...
Shaken and defeated, I take a look at my pink back. So far so good, although it looks very weird next to my front.
I guess it's been said that men gain empathy for women when this is done; I say the hell with that. Nobody with a lot of hair should have to do this. Jesus.
I spend the rest of the day feeling a bit weird in my clothes.
The next day: the nightmare of waking up with a huge itchy rash all over your back, which doesn't really go away for the next 2 weeks or so. And I'm just dumb enough to wonder about doing this again -- because it gets easier, right?
The hair is just starting to grow back now -- and no Laker jerseys to my name. Whee!