The ‘Jeopardy!’ game show on Tuesday last week had a category on tattoos, and as a pic of Post Malone came up, I recoiled.
My reaction wasn’t about his looks, or the number of tattoos he was sporting on his face; it was the thought of how painful the inking process must have been. I briefly flirted with the idea of getting one in the past, but then I had a revelation: I’m a big wuss when it comes to any kind of discomfort.
I feel the same way when I see images of women getting their lips medically plumped. Are they cray-cray? Whatever happened to a good ol’ dollop of Vaseline?
I’ve always been like this. If it had been my choice when I was a kid, I wouldn’t have signed up for a single immunisation in school. Injections vs serious disease? I’ll take my chances. On the plus side, this is probably why my parents never worried about me becoming a heroin addict.
As an adult, when I’ve absolutely had to endure a medical appointment that involves a syringe and needle, I’ve made it very clear to the person administering it what they’re getting themselves into. I should imagine that after a five-minute talk about my cowardice; history of bad experiences; and how I might react if this could not possibly be mistaken for a mosquito bite, they are probably more of a nervous wreck than I am. Always a good plan when someone is about to plunge something sharp into your person.
On another note, I keep waiting for body hair to come back into fashion. Arguably, some of the most painful procedures I’ve gone through are accompanied by the ripping sounds of wax strips or the faint whirring of threads as they head towards my upper lip.
I put off waxing for as long as I could, but shaving was a long and arduous process. Also, I’d inevitably find later on, in different lighting, that I’d missed a spot – a tuft on a knee or something. I remember noticing that one day in the office. The only thing available in my desk was a roll of duct tape, so I used that to ‘wax’ the area. Glad I hadn’t missed anything in the bikini region, but then swimsuits weren’t really encouraged at work.
I had no idea what to expect at my first waxing appointment; I steeled myself for the worst. In fairness, my imagination eclipsed the reality, and it was only near the end when I was wearying of the sensation. Anyone walking past the room might have thought the beautician was pulling a dagger out of my leg. “Okay! Here we go… brace yourself! One, two, three… ”
Just when I thought I’d finally discovered some brave bones in my body, I signed up for a new treatment. All I’ll say is, get your moustache threaded, then come crying to me about your compound fracture.
I wasn’t going to win Man of Movember or anything, but I could definitely see some fine, downy growth betwixt lip and nose in a magnifying mirror that needed addressing. The last thing you want to hear from a guy you’re kissing is, “Oo… that tickles.”
All my friends raved about threading rather than waxing the face. No red rash, I was told. What they failed to mention was that it felt like thin slivers of glass being shoved into your pores over an interminable amount of time. I remember my poor spa technician trying to work through a stream of expletives; she wanted it all to end faster than I did. I mean, there was no denying the skill. It’s extraordinary how accurate such a treatment can be in the hands of a professional, but I would have preferred to appreciate it as an observer rather than a victim (client).
When I look at these examples I’ve shared above, I know that the silly thing about my gutlessness is that I probably make it worse on myself by getting all het up with anticipation. I’m not saying I want doctors to start using the element of surprise – becoming Cato to my Inspector Clouseau, where they fly out of a closet and stick a needle in my bum before I have time to worry about it – but there has to be some way to lessen my terror and sensitivity.
Maybe I could be promised a prize after each injection. I’m not referring to a lollipop – I’m talking something with real value. Or perhaps a cocktail at the end of the appointment? I bet that would fly with the Health Services Authority.
Actually, I’ve got the solution: Give me a choice between threading or a jab. No contest. Bring on the wide bore hypodermic.
Related Videos
