Flame-ing Mental
Pain fascinates me. Some childish curiosity within me has recently re-emerged and prompts me to stick my hand into the flame of pain, so to speak. I want to do the kind of things which give me adrenaline kicks. I want to do the kind of things which earn me the stunned nods of amazement from my mates in the pub. I wanted to have the hair flamed from my face, and how convenient it was that a certain beautician was prepared to do just that.
So, there I was. Sat in a big chair in the Mediterranean Barbers Shop on Goodramgate, I began to wonder quite what the flame entailed. Would some man don a welding mask, light a blow torch and ask me to stay incredibly still? Would some medieval gaoler arrive, select a branding iron from the fire and scar me for life?
The flame is an interesting treatment. It involves, basically, burning the hair from your face. Sat waiting for the treatment, it seemed that it would have the same consequences as a major industrial accident. I was scared, but I was scared and psyched up. Nothing was going to stop me. There was no going back. I was going to get hurt.
Before I was to be flamed, I was the lucky recipient of a shave with a cut throat razor. This wasn’t pain as such. It was potential pain, for one slip or loss of concentration could have disasterous consequences. The shave was terrifying. I was bricking it, I really was. I don’t trust myself shaving, but I certainly don’t trust anybody else doing it. Yet this was only the tremor before the earthquake. The flame was about to be lit.
For all the build up and all the hype, you might well be disappointed when I tell you that the flame was only a cotton wool bud on fire. You might think that I am a coward but whether the flame is a few inches or a few feet high, the fire is hot. Fire, whatever way you look at it (or touch it, for that matter), is dangerous. Its damn dangerous. It is even more dangerous when some Greek man who speaks little English is waving the said flame near your face. So, be impressed.
The barber, Alex, produced a cotton wool bud from a bottle of metholated spirit. Taking a lighter to it, he turned the bud into a five inch towering inferno. I dared not move. I took a deep breath and waited. Alex was concentrating. His eyes were focused upon the flame. His tongue was resting beneath his upper teeth in that manner which is characteristic of determined concentration. There was silence apart from the roar of the flame. My eyes widened, my palms began to sweat and my buttocks clenched. Time, it seemed, had stopped. Nothing was happening, the barber was still concentrating hard.
With a swift move of the hand, Alex had began. The flame came roaring towards my face like a ball of fire, engulfing and consuming all that stood in its path. In a split second, the fire had reached my face and began its journey across my skin. It passed with tremendous speed across the barren desert which is (was…) my face, burning and singeing all the life forms that abided there. The remaining hairs must have breathed a sigh of relief when they saw the flame lift and move away back towards the one who weiled it. Their complacency was short lived, however, for no sooner had the flame lifted from my face did it turn round and begin a return journey. I shut my my eyes and braced myself as the flame passed over the dry and arid landscape, flaming the remaining hairs which were hiding underneath the contours of my nose.
It hurt like hell. Thank you for your concern. What else could I possibly expect? I am a bit dissapointed that I didn’t get scarred during the treatment, as that would have added a nice touch to my masochistic morning. Instead of scars, I got a massage instead. My head was wrapped in a towel and my arms were waved high above me. Don’t ask me why, I really do not know. I had got hurt. That’s what I went for, that’s what I wanted. I am a happy man. A very happy man.
If you too would like to have your facial hair burnt off, contact Mediterranean Barbers Shop, 44 Goodramgate., York. 01904 637853
Loading ...