TKOG Who lets a stranger drizzle hot wax on her ‘pits

Reminder: on Sunday, August 22, from 12:01AM to 11:59PM, my life is a Choose Your Own Adventure. Except you’re choosing my adventure. Tell me what to do via Twitter or blog comment and, as long as it isn’t illegal or too expensive, I’m all over it, dudes.

NTKOG #249: The kind of immaculately groomed pain-scoffer who — assuming women actually had armpit hair — would shell out the big bucks for a complete stranger to rip hers out by the roots.

I am: a complete wimp about wax-induced pain, which isn’t doing much for my future as a Career Dominatrix.

I am not: sure why women are so grossed out by their armpit hair anyway. We’re sexually mature mammals, dudes. Hair is a genetic factor here.

The Scene: Total Skin Care, a family-run waxing and skin salon in the ever-glamorous Allston. After a few weeks of angsting, breezed into the salon after work on Thursday and asked if they had any appointments for underarm deforestation. The charming woman at the counter penciled me in for an appointment forty-five minutes later then — as I dashed out to find the nearest DIY anesthesia center (ie: bar) — called out anxiously: “Wait, are you sure your armpit hair is long enough to wax? How long has it been since you shaved it?”

Uh, will six months do?

Guys, let’s talk about armpit hair. I realize this is a completely TMI admission, and verges on societal unacceptability, but — I kind of like it. I know, as women we’re total failures unless we pluck, pinch and alter every square inch of our bodies, but, dude, what’s so wrong with a little underarm foliage? About four years ago, I made the aesthetic decision to grow mine out; because The Ex and I were of one mind about the allure of a little spray of hair, I haven’t really looked back since.

The way I see it, my armpit hair is who I am. I’m not vain, I love my body, and my primary goal in 98% of social interactions is to weed out dudes who don’t have a high tolerance for personal eccentricities. Plus, whenever I contemplate shaving, I always think: dude, what if I’m stuck in some sort of missile-launching scenario with half a dozen foreign leaders, all locked in an underground bunker in our shirtsleeves for eighteen hours a day until we reach a final decision and, just at the fever pitch of military negotiation, I’m asked the single most important question of my life — if I shave under my arms, what the hell will I have to stroke contemplatively?

TKOG: greatest sex symbol of our time? Or of all time? Discuss.

Regardless, it was with the heavy heart of Sampson lowering himself into Delilah’s barber’s chair that I wandered down the salon’s steps and thrust myself into my fate. Not ten minutes later, I was folded into the embrace of Barbara, a woman a little older than my mother. Flowing skirt, unfussy hair, radiantly sarcastic grin — you know, like the cool aunt who takes you out whenever she’s in town and talks cute strangers into salsa dancing with you in the middle of taquerias.

Within the first five seconds in the waxing room, she told me to take off my top. Um, okay, I hesitated, waiting for her to leave the room. She didn’t. So off came the shirt and I splayed myself on the chair, arms up, my whole body clenched like a fist to protect me from the awkwardness and pain that was about to come. Except that didn’t happen either.

As she spread the hot wax on my first ‘pit, she launched into a hilarious diatribe about her gay dog and his heterophobia. Dude, you should lend him to me to take on dates, I laughed, then started to warn her that I’d probably scream when she pulled the wax out — except when I looked down at my underarm, it was already shorn. Magic.

“Dude, how’d you do that?!” I yelped. She beamed, almost coquettishly, the sly guru of hair removal, and admitted the secret was in her stories.

“Which one do you want to hear next, honey?” she asked, squirting lotion into her hand. “Wanna hear about my porn stars?” She massaged the lotion into my armpit, firmly, while gazing into the distance. “Some of the ones that come to me are gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind having one of them myself…”

From there, she described trade secrets about removing testicle hair, then told a story about a conservative judge and his hair-removed junk so uproarious that I had to beg her to stop because my abs were cramping from laughter. Big improvement from my last hair-removal experience, which I left shrieking like a freemason during the Inquisition.

By the time my ‘pits were soft and hair-free, I was too in love with Barbara to just let her wander out of my life. Uh, hey, I asked, trying to drag out the interaction, you know those, like, hairs on your toe-knuckles?

“Oh honey, say goodbye to ‘em,” she grinned, dribbling hot wax on my much maligned feet. “This one’s on the house!”

Too soon after, I got properly dressed again and followed her to the counter, where I paid the (incredibly reasonable) fee, volunteered to ghostwrite her memoirs, and promised to be back soon. And, between us, I definitely will.

The Verdict: Wow! Glad I retried waxing! Turns out that the sum of your experience has almost nothing to do with wax types or salon quality — the right warm, radiant personality can turn torture (literal torture!) into a deliriously delightful experience. Frankly, the fact that my armpits look great (and socially acceptable, for once) was just a bonus. I would have paid her just to stand there and listen to her stories.

Also, for what it’s worth, Sampson may have been shorn, but isn’t altogether powerless. I’m still nervous about my lack of meditative strokeability in a nuclear winter scenario, but, that aside, forgot that shaven ‘pits look pretty okay. I may or may not keep it up, but if I do, waxing all the way.

Tagged as: admitted to barbara that i had ingrowns from my bikini wax and she demanded i take off my underwear to show her. which i totally did. because she was a goddess and i'd do whatever she said., allston, armpits!, boston, email me if you want professional secrets about waxing yo' balls, find it especially hard to get up in arms about armpit hair b/c i personally find nothing sexier than a hairy armpit on a dude (or a lady-dude for that matter), i wanted to take a picture of the hairy waxing strips afterwards but didn't want barbara to think i was a TOTAL freak, if you're like "oh i only shave my armpits for the hygiene" then let me say: if men's speedstick deodorant can't handle a little hair then modern hygiene has bigger problems than my pits, if you're one of those dudes who's like "oh i only shave my armpits for the hygiene" then dude let me just say that if men's speedstick deodorant can't handle a little armpit hair then modern hygiene , in which i prove myself wrong, just another day in the life of history's greatest sex symbol, skin care, spa, torture, total skin care, waxing, yes i am apparently totally undateable