The services offered at Uni K Wax Centers offer any man a series of philosophical questions he should answer before deciding whether to step inside its doors.
For some, the idea of waxing is too feminine and strays into the vapid territory of diva-esque metro-sexuality. They’d rather cling to their caveman genetic legacy and let body hair overtake their torsos no matter the cost to their love lives. If women are to find them attractive, they must take them as they are.
Can you imagine Ernest Hemingway, John Wayne or Sean Connery getting waxed? Connery alone could require weeks of labor.
For others, the primary force of their masculinity is their ability to attract women. Anything they do to pull that off is fair game, outward expressions of testosterone be damned. There’s also the argument that hairless skin makes a man look younger.
It’s not impossible to envision Leonardo DiCaprio, Johnny Depp or John Cena getting plucked — and none of them would have difficultly pulling trim. For Cena, a hairless body is practicality a professional responsibility.
There’s no right or wrong in this debate. It’s a matter of personal style. Those men who think they look good pelt free can save money and accomplish any depilatory mission at Uni K Wax Centers.
The ambiance of a Uni K Center is spa-like, but non-ender specific. You’ve got the SiriusXM ethereal music wafting in the background, but, otherwise, a Uni K has the feeling of a quiet doctor’s office.
The menu of services is decided between men and women, with men often costing more — presumable because they’re hairier and have more surface space to clear.
I figured I’d go with a classic option and opt to have my back hair removed for $50. In a joint like a Uni K, I figured that’d be the equivalent of ordering spaghetti and meatballs in an old mom and pop Italian restaurant — safe, traditional and a good way to sample the fair. Then, I decided I didn’t want to analogize my body hair and pasta ever again.
My trained waxing technician escorts you to what looks every bit like a doctor’s examination room. Same examination-style couch with the same paper stretched over the cushions. You hop up, disrobe wherever necessary, lay down and wait.
Now, readers will notice that the photos included for this feature are fairly generic. They’re not exactly action photos of the procedures in process. Consider that a public service because I’ll beat a year’s pay that no human being on the face of this Earth – no matter the sex, age or ethnicity, and no matter what deity they pray to — got out of bed this morning thinking, “My only hope for today is to see multiple photos of John Scott Lewinski’s back both hairy and as smooth as a baby’s arse.”
We will rely on verbal descriptions here.
After applying a topical antiseptic, the technician fetches your individual pot of heated wax. Every pot is prepare separately and applied with individual use tools to avoid any two people sharing any tools of the trade.
Your waxer begins slathering on the warm (not hot) wax. It’s a mix of beeswax and pine resin and cools quickly. You don’t have much time to think about what’s about to happen before you feel your tech tugging lightly on the wax patch to find a good edge grip.
Then, rip. It’s a sudden sting, but the movies would think it’s akin to taking a high-powered rifle round to the batch. It’s more of a sudden, irritating pain — like a politically incorrectly named Indian burn or the kind of pinch a sibling would send your way in the back seat of your parents’ car. I wanted to bark out an, “Ow. Quit it.” Instead, I just snarled a bit and kept asking questions.
After each pull and rip, the tech gently pokes at points around the recently deforested. The idea is to confuse the nerve endings and cut the sting short.
Once the follicular slaughter (…great band name there…) is complete, the tech spreads another antiseptic layer and a little lotion to soothe the now very bare flesh. First time waxees are urged not to take a hot shower or be too eager to sunbathe as the skin remains touchy for several hours before everything settles down into blissful hairlessness.
I’m not a week separated from my plucking, and I’m still all slippery and such. There’s no stubble on this pumpkin yet — though I think that aphorism is more frost-related. I’m told I’d have to return in about three to four weeks for another go if I wanted to stay prickle free.
When those weeks go by, it’ll be up to me if I choose the Grizzly Adams or the Adam Ant look — and if I can come up with metaphors that are less out of date.
