Let’s just say I’m not too fond of it. Kind of like I’m not too fond of turning on the tv and seeing a hot-dog eating contest, where the contestants seem to be unfazed by the ungodly amount of food they’re inhaling. I can’t watch without dry-heaving a good three dozen times.
Just not my thing.
So I should lead with a disclaimer that I think Greg is a very handsome guy. A very handsome guy with a few backhairs that sprouted up some time after he turned 30. He’s not Chubaka by any means, it’s more hit and miss. Patchy, if you will.
Oh, let’s hope he doesn’t read this.
Last week we received an invite to go boating with some friends, which was quickly followed by my request that Greg get his back waxed before going shirtless for all to see. No, was Gilligan’s reply.
After some slight begging, Greg surprised me Friday morning with a call saying that he was walking into a spa and was completely nervous. ‘What do I say’ he asked? “Tell them your wife said you need your back waxed and don’t worry. It’s no big deal.’ Yet Greg was one big ball of nerves, and mumbled something about he couldn’t believe he was doing this, because what guy gets his back waxed, and if anyone in the spa laughs at him I’m dead meat. Good to know he was handling things.
To make matters worse, Greg called back to say the spa couldn’t get him in for another 45 minutes, which means he had just that long to stew about the procedure. ‘Can you believe they asked me HALf-BACK or FULL-BACK? I mean, really.’ I’m sure a good wife would have said something encouraging here, instead I was laughing hysterically. I explained he had nothing to feel uneasy about, and tried walking him through the process, starting with the locker room where he would receive a robe.
‘A ROBE? I am NOT wearing a robe. No way.‘ I’d be lucky to get Greg past the front desk, and certainly didn’t help by introducing visions of Hugh Hefner. Plain and simple, he wanted the Express wax and hoped to disappear out the door that reads ‘Embarrassed Male Customers.’
Fast-forward one hour and $30.00 later, and Greg’s back is smoothalicious. As in 6-weeks smooth, which means no more jokes about breaking out my flat-iron. After all the worries, Greg lived to tell about it. In fact, I might even say he didn’t mind it. And, heaven forbid, he just might go again. Of course, then there’s the chesthair.
But I won’t push my luck.