The childish premise of this article was simple: Boys can do anything girls can.
Inspired by this video of men experiencing childbirth pain, I posed this challenge to looloo’s editor: “Those guys were wusses. I bet I could do that and not act like such a drama queen. Then I can write about it.”
That was my first mistake. Overconfidence.
Without any doctor friends, or a budget, to have childbirth pain electro-stimulators hooked up to 6-pack flabs, we settled for what according to her was the next best thing: getting a brazilian wax — a boyzilian.
Challenge accepted. That, it turns out, was mistake number two.
With the challenge issued and the task set in stone, I was pretty psyched at the idea of proving that the procedure isn’t nearly as bad as women say it is. If girls get it done as often as every 3 weeks, how hard could it be?? This pride would eventually be my downfall.
I obviously wasn’t too thrilled at the idea of having my downstairs man-scaped bare. I flashbacked to my younger self after just hitting puberty, when having body hair was considered a sign of finally being a “real man.” It was hard to imagine my adolescent self consenting to any of this.
In my head, however, men all over the world had entrusted me with the task of proving once and for all, that we could handle the pain. Idiot.
To take my mind off the eventuality of turning into the human equivalent of Rufus the Naked Mole Rat, I took to the internet for research on getting waxed. Here are some cool things I found out:
• I’ll look better in a Speedo. I guess it’ll also shave a few milliseconds off my lap times in the pool.
• It’ll get easier the more times I get it done.
• Hair grows back softer and thinner.
Yeaaaah, that’s pretty much it. Here are the other not-so-comforting things I discovered:
• It hurts. Go figure.
• There’s a risk of having ingrown hairs after.
• I could also experience chemical burns and/or bleeding that could result in scarring or infection.
• There’s this thing called “double-dipping” wherein unlicensed spa technicians use tools more than once, without sanitizing them… sometimes resulting in the spread of disease (even STDs!) from patient to patient.
D-Day… or rather, B-Day.
With a quick search on looloo, I found the closest hair removal salon with an above-average average rating on the app. Risk of infection still on my mind, there was no way I was going to some unknown place to get my manhood stripped clean. Off I went, the Man-O-Lantern scene from The 40-Year Old Virgin playing in my head [NSFW due to profanity]:
I must’ve walked by the place at least 3 times, each time hoping the waiting area would be empty. Finally working up the courage, I entered and while trying to avoid the awkward stares from the women in the holding area asked, “May mga nakapila po ba para sa brazilian?” My dad would’ve been so proud.
“First time niyo ba, sir?”
“Oo. Miss, tanong lang. Masakit ba?”
“Depende sa tolerance niyo, sir.”
“Gaano katagal yung procedure?”
“Depende rin sa inyo, sir. Kung kaya niyong tuloy-tuloy…”
I was then led into a dimly-lit room and asked to take off everything I had on from the waist down and slip into a pink robe. Next to the bed was a lamp positioned right next to my nether-region.
“Ate, marami po bang mga lalaking nagpapa-brazilian?”
“Marami-rami rin naman… siguro mga 30%. Pero karamihan sa kanila mga ‘nagpapa-men,’ o kaya naman mga model. Yung iba naman, sabi utos raw sa kanila ng mga girlfriend nila.”
I propped myself on the bed, my junk completely exposed and ready, next to this stranger I had just met. She then proceeded to show me her instruments of torture: little brownish balls of goo in tiny plastic tubs. I asked her why they didn’t look like what I saw on TV or in movies, that honey-like substance applied with a popsicle stick. Where were the waxing strips?
“Cold wax po yung gagamitin natin sir. Yung hot wax kasi, ano yun, may chemicals po. Eto, natural ingredients, mas okay siya para sa mga sensitive areas.”
“Alin ho yung mas masakit?”
“Pareho lang po, sir.”
At that point, I needed a female friend to talk me through the ordeal and metaphorically hold my hand. I whipped out my cellphone. From this point onwards, I’ll be using some of the exchanged texts as narrative tools. I feel they better illustrate my state of mind at each stage of the procedure, and the censored profanity is the best way I can think of to explain how I was feeling.
It’s hard to describe how the first, uhhh… stripping went. It started out feeling a bit strange. She started stretching and rubbing the wax ball on the exposed hair, letting the strands attach to it before finally, in one swift stroke, stripping off the first bunch… and with it, a little bit of my dignity.
I knew it was going to hurt.
It did. A LOT.
She continued to rip and strip with a deftness that I could only guess (and hope) came from years of experience. Tears welling up in my eyes, I was asked to move and contort my legs into awkward positions, from some kind of Indian-sit contortion, to full on spread-eagle. My apologies for the mental picture this might just have created in your heads.
At that point, my vision slightly blurry, I began to take it all in. To be quite honest, the searing pain from my groin area aside, I didn’t feel as uncomfortable as I thought I would, considering the fact that a complete stranger was prodding her fingers around my crown jewels. She even tried to keep me calm by starting friendly conversation, all the while holding back the giggles behind her surgical mask each time I cringed from the pain.
That didn’t stop me from wanting to knock her out at some point though.
I thought it was over.
Then the completely unexpected happened. I was asked to lie on my stomach. Why? So she could do my behind. Apparently, when they said you’d be hairless down there, they meant EVERYWHERE. Including your butt crack. I got on my stomach and as requested, used my hands to spread my arse cheeks apart. Believe it or not, this part actually wasn’t so bad. More waxing.
Again, I thought that was the last of it. I was just about ready to finally relax, when…
“Sir, tweeze na po natin.”
“HA?? Kelangan pa ba yan??”
“Para malinis talaga, sir!”
The salon technician then went over my manhood again, this time with her tiny tweezers. She did her best to be quick about it, though it felt like a swarm of fire ants were feasting on my privates. Of the entire experience, I think this was the worst part.
And with a generous final dousing of baby powder, it was all over.
The Bare Truth
So I completed the challenge and here I am writing about it. I’d like to take the opportunity to apologize, on behalf of all men, to all the women out there. You’re CLEARLY much braver than we guys give you credit for.
To every wife or girlfriend who’s had this done for the benefit of their significant other, I salute you. Those guys had better be treating you right.
For the #Laboracay-bound girls who got waxed to look good in a bikini, PLEASE… take as many selfies as you’d like. Make the most of your tiis ganda moment. Push niyo yan.
The original point of this article was to show that boys can do anything girls can. While getting a boyzilian proves that yes, men CAN withstand the pain of a waxing, it doesn’t mean we’d like to, nor does it take anything away from the women that have it done as often as they do. YES, it DOES hurt as much as women say it does. I’m going to give this round to the girls — it’s 1-0 for the women then. It wasn’t even close.
Any suggestions for challenge number 2?
Special thanks goes out to Ms. Stephanie (not her real name) of Lay Bare Waxing Salon for taking care of me. She was very professional and extremely considerate, given that it was my first time. She’s literally seen a part of me that few others have. If I ever get a boyzilian again (which probably won’t be anytime soon), she’ll be the first person I’ll look for.