A few years ago I was gallivanting around Thailand with my two frequent travel companions, Chad and Bam. They are a bad influence on me. Chad usually makes me drink too much and Bam convinces me to do things I would normally think ill of.
The following picture is an example of the things they talk me into, and from the grimace you can see it was not very pleasant.
I can not blame the haircut on anyone but myself.
Now, what kind of friends would not only pressure me into having any procedure that would cause such agony, but take pictures of me while it was in progress? There was no, "Sorry Killer, we did not know it would be so painful." It was just raucous laughter and flash bulbs going off.
The next picture is a more expansive shot that will shed more light on the situation. I warn everyone out there with a weak stomach and preconceived notions about body hair to stop here.
wanted to get his head shaved, which they will do in Thailand for about a buck. Yes, I am getting my back waxed. Right across from our guest house was a hair salon, and BamBam was buying, so I got my hair touched up as well. During the task the lady pulled my shirt away to whisk away loose hairs and noticed my back forest. Being a sly business person she offered to take care of that area as well, for only about ten dollars American. I, of course, declined. I had no desire to inflict unnecessary pain upon myself. After several minutes of name calling and questioning of my manhood by my friends, and after the unknown workers of hair salon had joined in, I relented. It's Thailand, maybe a back waxing comes with a "happy ending".
I got up and expected to be led up to a private area to undergo the delicate procedure. Instead, I was moved ten feet from the chair to a small table in front of the main store front window. As I removed my shirt, which I very rarely do in public, I noticed that the foot traffic outside was pretty heavy. I positioned my self belly down on the table as the first of the gawkers stopped to see what was about to happen.
Being a third world country and all, Thailand waxers do it the old fashioned way. They use real wax that is being cooked in an old fondue pot, apply it with a tongue depressor and then unceremoniously rip it off, slowly and repeatedly. Disturbingly, the waxer would take the old, hair clogged wax and put it back into the fondue pot for re-use. After a few moments a young girl came in for a bikini wax and they put a partition between us. Her waxer ran out of wax after a few minutes and I saw her come and get some wax from our pot. I could not help worrying that if something happens to that girl, they will find my DNA on her hoo-ha.
During this event Chad and Bam both had their cameras out and were snapping photos, along with a few random tourists outside the store window. That was not nearly as disturbing as the wax ladies repeated offers to come back to America with me and be my wife. Her exact repeated quote was, "You marry me, I come to America and wax your back everyday." She was cute, but the last think I want is a daily back waxing.
By the time the entire ordeal was over, I got up, put my shirt back on, and was upset that the crowd outside the window dispersed without any applause or anything. I was exhausted from the torture, and a little disappointed that there was no happy ending. I was a little disgusted for the next few days because my shirt kept sticking to my back. I missed my protective layer of fur.
Another strange occurrence from getting one's back waxed is the sudden appearance of an ass hairline. I guess they have to stop waxing at some point, so it leaves an abrupt re-start of hair. Don't worry, I included a picture of that as well.
