Nostril Waxing

Okay, I will be blunt, I had a nostril waxing... why?
...I don't know.

I received my very first nostril waxing today. 

As I begin to lie back, the enormity has hit me with what I am about to go through. I prepare my body for the physicality of it and mentally for the blame I am going to hurl at my brain for consenting to it.
What was my brain doing?!

The 1950's American barber's chair is comfortable and relaxing. My lumbar supported by a pillow which is stuffed with what I guess is fine expensive duck feather.
I have draped over me a brand new silken barbers cloth...Why is it a new one? Is it to show off the store's reputation of luxury or boasting of their dry cleaning budget? Or is it a special one for the waxing of the nares?... OMG will I be a gusher?!?!

The assistant that will be doing this seemingly horrendous routine is a sweet lady, soft spoken with delicate soft hands that smell of rose.

With all the comfort, expensive smells and Enya style music playing around me why do I need this trepidation?

The process begins by warming wax and then dipping two cuetips into a gloopy molten wax that then gets inserted into my nose. The "climax" commences when the wax is dry.
I look in the mirror at myself with the two plastic sticks sticking out and I look similar to one of the characters from Dumb and Dumber. Not the most glorious. 
The polite and comforting lady I described earlier periodically checks the drying wax, which is now blocking up my nasal passages; she gives me a smile. She is wearing a mask over her mouth and nose but her bright eyes are telling me she is smiling.
No voice, no audible warning, not even a comforting grip of my shoulder. Just a sharp tug followed by some kind of audible grunt due to effort.
She shows me what she has yanked out of my nose from her efforts. I look at what seems like an orange lollipop that might have been found underneath an old sofa.
She grabs the second cuetip before yanking.

SHOCK! PAIN! And what can only be described as a feeling of sunburn hitting the end of my nose.

My quasi-sadist barber/master looks and examines her work.
My face contorted and tight from stress and anxiety. Mashed.

The result: The tip of my nose is colder due to me being more prone to air-conditioning and as a result I can't stop sniffling. 
I wish I bought a beer with the money instead.

"Okay" she says politely and softly. She puts a hand on my shoulder, not so much as a guiding helping hand but a repressive hand pushing me back into the chair.
"Another go" she says.


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