Lasering 2: The procedure

They turned the power up this time. I'm happy for that, as it means more hair-killing power. But it also means the little stabbing needle this time felt more like sharpened rare spotted panda bones. There is something sublime about lying back on a paper covered table, staring straight up at the ceiling, watching the smoke from your armpits drift up towards the fluorescent lights. It's like being in a dentist's office, but the dentist's aim is horribly wrong. This time the smell of burnt hair was quite strong.

Left to right across the hairs. Zap. Zap. Zap. Zap. This would make a good children's song, I thought amidst the pain killers.

Ian was watching with the fascination of a jeweler watching a Nascar wreck. I wondered if, given the chance, he would decorate my pits with supple curves of laserburn. Thankfully, there was a little conversation going about the procedure, so I wouldn't have to think about the pain.

"So it's not aimed at the hair?" [Ow!]
"It covers a round area of 10 mm. An entire dot." [Ow!]
"That's fascinating. Does it burn the skin?" [Ow!]
"No." [Ow! Liar!]

The lady was actually really nice to both of us. I get the feeling she's not used to working with an audience.

After the burning sensation came the much-appreciated armpit ice pack. You'll never know how much your body can appreciate the arctic north until you've had this done. If you're getting lasered, get it done in the middle of a snowstorm. On a frozen lake. In your undies. The weird thing is that I could barely feel it. My pits were still numb from the cream. It's not like your armpits ever go numb. You can sit on a leg in a weird position and get a numb foot. But you can't get numb armpits unless you pull a Christopher Reeve.

But the surrounding areas, and the lightly roasted meat underneath my skin, was very appreciative. Now that I've been out for a few minutes, my arms are starting to feel like I've done the parallel bars on a very hot day. There are many worse pains than this in beauty: Waxing. Plucking. Sanding. But as I don't do any of those things... Ow.

Lasering part 2: Preproduction

This is, barring my Geo Metro, the least masculine thing I have ever spent money on.  There are feminine hygiene products more friendly to my gender than this office.  Whichever plant gives off this pinkish-tan paint had a bad year.  Fortunately, I was accosted in the parking lot by a friendly Jamacian looking to buy drugs.  That may be my last shot of testosterone for a while.

The kindly laser operator was covering at the front desk when I walked.  She took me into the side room.  Armpits have since been numbed, and are covered in a pleasing combination of goo and plastic wrap.  I feel like a happy slip 'n' slide.  Maybe that's what I'll be next Halloween.

Back into the waiting room for the next forty minutes to baste.  The wicker lounge chairs are pleasingly comfortable, and smell slightly of lavender.  Things are nicely quiet: There is no suicide-inducing world jazz today.  The water cooler is giving off a soft buzz loud enough to mask small yelps of pain.  

The woman who arrived after me is not getting numbed at all.  Not to generalize too much, but I know men that can break their own arm, spin it around, and set it backwards without flinching.  But pluck an eyebrow, and they're on the floor crying.  My sister used an epi-lady for years.  I got it stuck on my head just once, and couldn't look at it without my eyes welling up.  There is just something about beauty treatments that getting punched on the playground just doesn't prepare you for.

Now I'm getting nervous.  This nirvana of peace and tranquility still ends in the angry laser killing parts of my body.

The Embarrassing Pre-Photo

Before we go in for the procedure, this is where we currently stand.



Thanks to the treatment, the hairs are lighter and thinner. My natural deep blacks cave-dwelling hairs have switched to a somewhat reddish, beard-ish (beard-ly?) color. Of course, the biggest change is that they are as spotty as Tony Blair's head. Seriously, I'm starting to feel like I have my grandfather in a headlock. I don't know how, but my joints have a combover.

If you missed it yesterday, Groupon had another Boston deal on laser hair removal reduction. $100 for 3 treatments, or an 80% discount on that place's normal price. I'm starting to think they have trouble giving this stuff away. And who wouldn't want parts of their anatomy exploded with a "laser?" Of course, the normal price breaks down to around $300 per five-minute treatment. At that rate, they should be stabbing our cavey places with aged Giant Panda fossils while Luciano Pavarotti comes back from the dead to sing Pokerface. $100 for 3 treatments comes to $33 per treatment, which should just about cover the numbing agent.

I will be meeting up with my comrade-at-arms, Ian, at the studio at 3. He will be guarding me, in case the laser machine decides to vent its pent-up rage.

"Laser"ing, round 2. The laser of peace.

Since we last saw our panicked, nail-biting, sunburnt armpitted hero, I've had a change of heart. I can feel the reason why women like to go to salons. It's an aura of therapeutic, calming, chemically-induced progress. Everything about my life will be better, just so long as I lie on this table and have my unwanted hair exploded like tiny grenades of my newly constructed future. Do these kind people offer cucumber wraps for your eyes? Coca-cola baths to remove the stained outer parts of your toenails? Is there enough acid nostril rub to make me forget about all of this homework I need to do? I don't know. But I do know that I'll be looking forward to it all... That is, until I'm closer to the actual time where the actual acidey bits need to get next to my actual skin bits. But in theory, this is all starting to sound a bit nice.

It looks like we'll soon be getting an Urban Oasis in central square, where Hollywood Video used to be. Just think: You'll be able to have a relaxing bath in the back room where they used to keep the gentlemen's videos. I don't know about you, but that thought makes me look for my rubber ducky.

Tomorrow couldn't come sooner.