Nair for Masochists
One of the most popular activities in Federal Prison is the perusal of men's magazines such as Maxim and American Curves. Many hours are spent reading of ways to woo women, lose 20 lbs while increasing muscle mass, and how to travel Mexico on $300. These magazines are passed from inmate to inmate until covers are hanging by a thread, all the good pictures are ripped out and hanging in some one's locker, and the movie reviews are for Friday night's TNT feature. Magazines such as these are our only info on current styles, trends, and dating tips for those about to get out. I spent my time involved in this educational pastime. (I only read them for the articles of course).
One of the tidbits of social lore that I gleaned from such august journals as these was that my Austin Powers bear skin rug of marvelous flowing chest hair was extremely out of fashion and sure to get me shot and/or lynched the moment I stepped out of the prison gates. Following the advice of the editors at American Curves -- I decided upon reaching the halfway house here in Minneapolis that I would put an end to my unsightly growth of pectoral rain forest. My choices were thus: I could go down to the local Menard's to purchase the industrial strength hedge trimmer that would surely be needed for such a task, I could spend multiple hours and countless disposable razor blades sawing through what for so long had been my pride and joy, or I could try one of the new fancy hair removal products selling at the local Target. After viewing the price tag of some hair removers, I decided to try option 2 first.
It did take nearly 2 hours, and 3 disposable razor blades, but after much blood, sweat, and tears I had a flawlessly smooth chest, highlighting the months that I had spent on the weight yard at lovely FCI Englewood -- the fact that I had no one but myself to admire such a bare expanse of flesh was beside the point. I had accomplished what all the magazines said I needed to accomplish in order to have any chance at all of living a happy or fruitful life.
So, for almost 23 hours -- I was happy. Champagne and roses had fallen from the ceiling, (much to the annoyance of the guy who has to sweep and mop the bathrooms), and all was right with the world. Little did I know that such bliss was not to last. Much to my surprise, not even a day later my gloriously shorn skin was already conspiring against me by sprouting thousands of tiny black shoots of stubble. What was this? How could it be? I did not have the time to spend hours each day grooming my traitorous chest. The dirty, cheating, American Curves editors had said nothing about this! What was I to do? Unfortunately, I turned to the chemicals -- not cocaine, not meth, but NAIR.
I stopped by the local Target to pick up an insanely expensive can of Nair -- for men. I rushed back to the halfway house and immediately locked myself in the bathroom to test the wonders of this product on a small expanse of stubbly growth. After waiting the required time and washing off the blessed foam -- Eureka! The hair was gone! I had found my answer. All I had to do was spend hundreds of dollars a year on Nair and my life would instantly be better. Following the directions on the bottle, I waited 24 hours before trying the product on a larger patch of skin. After a full day in which no irritation occurred, I decided it was time to greet my future.
Once again, I locked myself into the bathroom. (By this time people had started to wonder.) I uncapped that glorious can and proceed to cover my entire chest, shoulders, navel, and the back of my neck in Nair. Once again, I waited with nail-biting anticipating as the secret formula worked it's magic. After the required amount of time and a few minutes extra for good luck, I washed the foam off. Since I was already in the shower, I decided to proceed with the morning wash and scrub, that was when the horror began.
I uncapped my daily exfoliating body wash and began to vigorously rub as usual. Within mere seconds I began to notice the most horrid burning sensation on my chest and navel. It felt as though someone had doused me with kerosene and lit me with a blow torch. After letting out a blood curdling scream worthy of Mel Gibson in Braveheart, I turned into the hot water to try and rid my tortured skin of the scalding soapy lotion. Hot water did very little to allay my distress, but finally after several minutes, the burning started to fade -- thanks I'm sure mostly to my family's genetically high pain tolerance.
Most people at this point would have turned back, but not I. Determined to clean myself as much as humanly possible, I stupidly decided that shampoo would not aggravate my hurt and throbbing flesh, which had begun to turn a most unsightly shade of angry red. So, after massaging a generous dose of Suave into my hair, I stuck my head under the shower to rinse -- once again, big mistake. The benign lather Suave, tested on the tender eyes of so many innocent bunny rabbits turned into a raging inferno of Dante-esque proportions when it hit my chest and stomach. My shouts of pure agony would have rivaled Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween any day of the week. After several more intensely painful and humiliating minutes in the showers direct stream, I put and end to the torture and tried to escape into the folds of a nice soft bath towel. Unfortunately, even the softest patting of my brutally mangled chest induced needles of pain.
This all took place on Friday, January 23. I couldn't wear a shirt comfortably until Tuesday, the 27 and the vile redness and sores still have not completely disappeared.
It goes without saying that from now on -- I think all natural is the way to go. I wouldn't put my worst enemy through that sort of emasculating agony. So, let this blog be a warning to all those who are tempted by flashy men's magazines and quick hair removal products.
One good side to this little escapade -- my respect for women and the things that they put themselves through to fulfill society's image of beauty could not possibly be any higher.