Thank You For Not Talking

There are times when we should be allowed personal space and total silence, like when we are in the toilet, cab rides, on the verge of suicide and most importantly, when we are about to be waxed.

Sometimes people just don’t get it. If I wanted to have a conversation, I would have dialed a chat line and certainly not when I have my dick exposed and experiencing considerable pain. The only words that should be coming out of me are, “Arggghhhh” and “Give me morphine!”

Going for a wax is just like any other body treatment with therapists pushing for packages and treatments with fancy names, through hard critique of you. Yes, we all know this is a marketing ploy and that stepping in is an appointment for your self-esteem to take a bashing and come out looking like Rocky Balboa.

In a facial, you suddenly have the worst complexion in the world and you suddenly discover that your skin is in such dire states of dehydration of sorts, that you wonder if grafting skin from your ass is the only solution.

Go for a foot reflexology and you discover that your internal organs are in such a mess that you should either start auctioning it off on eBay to Chinese soup makers, or you start coming back for more massages that will miraculously cure everything down to in-grown toenails.

We are never adequate in these sessions, I’ve learnt that. But, what does it take for some peace and quiet? An iPod? A jab to their throats? This time, it was about in-grown hair and damaging hair follicles, and it took my wax therapist a lot of words to get that message across.

“When you don’t take care of your skin, your hairs can’t talk to you and tell you that they are hurt, so the only way for them to complain is to have in-grown hair.”

Like really? If stupidity had a voice, it would have sounded just like that. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to laugh or to bite my tongue off. Maybe I could pretend to faint and she’ll stop talking, but I certainly wasn’t about to risk being rude to someone who was in a position to administer pain to me.

I don’t get it. Is talking suppose to ease the situation? Is the sole intention to make what is already an awkward state irritating as well? Why would men want to talk or hear you complain when they are not wearing pants?

I got by most of the waxing with typical male answers like, “umm”, “yah” and “okay”. Then 10 minutes later, just as I was having wax applied to my ass, I added a string of new vocabulary to the conversation.

“Fuckkkk! Damn hot!”

It was so hot, I thought I was having my ass branded and that I might never shit again. It was like accidentally spilling boiling water on your ass, that for a moment I reverted into that reflex butt clench. Of all the questions and she forgot to ask if the wax is too hot for my ass.