Even a gorilla needs pampering

Pampered.

It all started with that single word.

And, no, we’re not talking about adult diapers.

But frequently during conversation a word will stick with me and get my thought process going into unpredictable directions.

That happened when Marsha my hair stylist was trying to sell me add-on services such as a scalp massage, and I was saying no thanks. She said, “Wouldn’t you like to be pampered once in a while?”

Fair point. I’ve got to be one of the most un-pampered men on the planet, by choice.

It’s probably due to that rugged individualist constitution that has kept me going all these years. But the more I thought about Marsha’s comment, the more I could no longer defend that absolutist attitude.

I mean, what am I waiting for, the mortician to say what a great job he did on me? And I wouldn’t even be there to thank him!

So after ruminating on this for a couple of weeks – we don’t want to be hasty changing a lifelong prohibition – I decide to try one dose of it.

And just what would it be?

Well, I’d have that gorilla hair growing on my back removed!

The fact that I could consider having hair ripped off my back “pampering” only shows how far I have to go to enjoy the real thing.

I encourage myself by thinking that maybe in the process I can make a charitable contribution of my hair to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

Imagine my curls on Richard Nixon’s head, for example.

Think the IRS will go for it?

So, I call the local spa where in the past I have bought gift certificates for that then special woman. The problem is that it is a very feminine place. Pink is everywhere. But I mean, where else would I go to have this hair-nuking performed, Joe the Barber?

Oooo, I’ve encountered the first hurdle on the road to being pampered: just doing it.

All I can think about is Mel Gibson in the movie, What Women Want, hopping around on one-leg trying to stuff himself into panty hose! Is that before or after he screams at pulling his hair off?

Oh my God what am I doing! Am I sure I want to go down this road?

As I open the door to the spa and walk to the appointment desk, I liken it to making that first furtive drugstore purchase of a male birth control product.

I look around to see who may be listening. I quietly lean over and ask the young woman, “Uh, do you have services for men here? Uh, removing hair on my back, for example?”

“Yes, we can do that for you,” she adds, without a hint of enthusiasm.

“C’mon, I’m a guy in a world of pink for the first time, can’t you get this pampering thing off on the right foot,” I say to myself, and want to scream, “Give me a big smile and encouragement!”

The appointment is made: Friday at 5:15 p.m.

I arrive a couple of minutes early, which still gives me time to chicken out.

No luck.

Out comes, let’s call her Sabina, a thirty-something medium-build woman with a nice smile and a French accent let loose on my name as she announces, Duhnee?

Lucky for her I am still here.

I exhibit my worldliness and say comment ca va, as we walk down a long narrow hallway to The Room.

She tells me she is from Lebanon.

LEBANON!

Oh no, a Middle Eastern terrorist is going to be working on my back!

I think about running for the door, but by now it is too late, we are in The Room, which is about the size of a jail cell: 8’ by 10’.

Just a coincidence I’m sure.

The room is painted: you guessed it, PINK.

A boom box is on the counter whispering elevator music.

I am asked to lay chest-down on a toweled gurney, taking off only my shirt. She has me slide down on this rack and splay my arms out closely to each side. As she begins she tells me that it may hurt just a bit: it feels like someone writing randomly on my back with a hot Crayola crayon.

And then, while the thoughts are still warm, I feel and hear RIP RIP RIP!

I imagine the hair disappearing with each swipe.

It’s really not that bad, just some discomfort that you can easily ignore if you keep talking and breathing normally.

As the heat and stripping make their rounds of my back, at one point she asks me to put my chin down, burying my face in the towel, so that ostensibly she can get to the upper reaches of where my back joins my neck.

Aha, finally, the Lebanese terrorist coupe de grace!

Whew, no it’s just paranoia on my part.

Instead, she admires my stoicism and says, “I’ve never had one for the first time as good as you.”

Even an un-pampered stone like me enjoys that kind of compliment.

I know, I know, she tells that to all the men.

When the hair is all gone she puts a schmear of some cream over my back and runs a small electric device over it to disinfect the area.

That’s it.

I get up to put on my shirt and am told simply not to exercise right away since the pores in my skin are open and could become infected. She encourages me to look in the mirror before I put the shirt on.

You know, it doesn’t look bad at all. I thought it would appear as if someone had made a hairless rectangle on the back of a gorilla, but now I don’t think so.

The real test will be when I do this during beach season, and no one tries to snag me with a net and drag me to the zoo!

 

[Note: This article was originally written a number of years ago and appeared at a writer’s site that my daughter and I had. The image shown is from somewhere on the www. I always give attribution to the originator of any pictures of others used here at desktodirt. Unfortunately, over time, I have no idea where I got this from. Should anyone claim and prove it is theirs I will gladly give attribution. Thanks.]