A real hair-raiser: My first body waxing didn't exactly go smoothly

By CHUCK DARROW
Philadelphia Daily News

darrowc@phillynews.com 215-313-3134

WATERBOARDING, schmaterboarding. If the U.S. military wants a truly effective-and perfectly legal-"enhanced interrogation technique," it should consider body waxing sessions for its subjects.

I know this because I recently underwent one at Rizzieri Salon & Spa in Marlton. Suffice it to say the (occasional) pain was such that it was mere minutes before I was ready to reveal the location of every Nazi U-boat off the Jersey coast.

To be sure, getting the excess body hair ripped from my skin is not something I had ever longed to do. After all, I'm the wuss who will leave a blood-test Band-Aid on for three months in hopes that repeated showers will take care of its removal, rather than endure even a nanosecond of discomfort. But I sucked it up for several reasons.

First, I thought it would make a good summertime story. Second, I have grown a little weary of being admonished by lifeguards to "Please remove your sweater" before entering their pools.

But the most compelling reason was pride. Last January, I joined a gym, and for the first time in decades I possess what actually might fall under the category of defined muscles. I thought it would be nice if I could actually see them and thus mark my progress.

I learned at Rizzieri that I'm far from alone when it comes to "manscaping." According to Michele D'Angelo - the esthetician (or "waxologist") - what was conceived as a treatment for women is increasingly finding favor among the Y-chromosome crowd.

"It's becoming more popular for men, especially for guys who work out," she said. "You can really see the effect of what you've accomplished. I've had them say, 'Oh my gosh! I can't believe that's my body!' "

D'Angelo added that despite Steve Carell's famous scene in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," chest waxing is relatively rare because it is especially painful. Instead, back waxing is the most requested treatment.

She said I would be baby-bottom-smooth for six–to-eight weeks, and that any subsequent growth will probably be finer than what was there before. "And if you keep up with it regularly," she said, "it hardly grows back at all."

D'Angelo did warn of possible temporary issues. "The hair is the 'umbrella' of the skin. When you take it off, it is a trauma to the skin. Water or blood pours into [the site]," she explained, leaving rash-like coloring that can be treated with hydrocortisone cream or cold-water compresses.

D'Angelo's words hardly calmed my fears, nor did it help when she spoke of male clients who left her treatment room after the first dip-and-rip of a session, never to return. But I decided I was made of sterner (stupider?) stuff; it was time to begin.

I took off my shirt and put on a tank top for the "before" half of the "before and after" shots while D'Angelo swished around a container of light-yellow goop that I could have sworn was Cheez Whiz. She assured me it was actually wax as she dipped the first of about two dozen, six-inch muslin strips in the container. She extracted it and applied it to my lower back (it actually felt nice going on). And then, without warning and with a sudden pull of her wrist, she removed a clump of hair.

It stung a little, but really wasn't that bad at all. My apprehension of searing pain made me feel a little sheepish. I think I was actually disappointed it didn't hurt that much. Little did I know . . . .

Within minutes, D'Angelo got to the left side of my rib cage beneath my armpit. When she yanked, I thought my eyeballs would wind up on the floor. The process was soon enough repeated in the same location on the right side. I was beginning to regret being there. And then it really got bad.

It turns out the spot where your neck and back intersect is especially sensitive. I not only saw stars, but was able to identify three distinct constellations.

But the real fun occurred when she attempted to remove the hedgerow that covered my right upper arm. Try though she might, D'Angelo couldn't detach a dense patch of hair from my right bicep. It was at that point - as my eyes slightly teared - that I silently cursed myself for not volunteering to do the two-hour massage story instead of this one. And it was when I had the revelation about the military's interrogation of suspected terrorists.

But when the procedure was completed after about 45 minutes, there were three things that made me glad I'd been waxed. One was that even the most intense pain was fleeting. Sure, some spots really hurt like the dickens when defoliated. But there were no lingering effects. There was pain for a moment, then it disappeared forever.

What's more, for the first time in several decades, I actually was happy with the way those parts of my body looked.

And I was finally able to see that my almost-six months of sweat and toil at the gym had paid off in musculature that had been hidden in the underbrush. The value of clearly seeing the results of my work can't be measured.

So, would I do it again? At $65 for a 30-minute session at Rizzieri, this kind of gratification certainly is a bargain. And I now know the level of pain I'll have to briefly endure - unpleasant, but easily tolerable (it's also widely reported that the more people wax, the more immune to the pain they become).

So yeah, I think I'll go back when I feel it's warranted. And you can let the German High Command know that when I do, their strategic secrets will remain safe. *