Hair-raising: Should African men wax their 'Karura Forest'

I recently granted a longstanding request from the woman I sometimes see in my house to get myself waxed. It was more of a dare than a request, really. It began with the subtle accusation that I did not have the balls to go through it. Naturally, an argument ensued. Someone grabbed the very real pair they were being accused of lacking and gave them a shake. Someone scoffed.

Someone declared that they would present that pair to a waxing parlour and return hairless as an egg. The end result was that I found myself being stared down by a frowning man. That man then approached me with a vat of boiling acid— or room-temperature wax, as he claimed— and a sadistic smile. I wanted to point out that the last man I presented my bits to like that relieved me of my foreskin and I had not seen him since, but this fella did not seem the comedic type. And so there I was, trying to remember what wahenga said about swallowing your pride, while a man lathered my exposed nethers with boiling acid. I allowed myself to imagine the look on my roommate’s face when I went back with the report that the experience had been a walk in the park. My bravado lasted all of 33 seconds. Before I could adjust to the agony, another strip had been ripped free, and I was scuttling up the table to get away. 
More involuntary sounds slipped through my gritted teeth. I heard my torturer ask if I was okay and offer reassurance, but I was too busy examining myself for signs of smoke, because there was definitely a fire in my groin area. And just to prove that I was not imagining it, that I was not an exception to the rule, I heard a very similar grunt of pain from a nearby room, followed shortly by a screech and a visceral series of sounds that can only be described as mayowe.That experience was easily the most painful I have been a part of. 
More painful than being an Arsenal fan, or the time my high school sweetheart took up with my best friend, or the night I stubbed my big toe on the edge of a cupboard, then got my finger pinched by a door hinge as I flailed around. Baffled, I came away from the session baffled by the notion that women willingly do this. They do it from head to toe.  Sometimes, I am told, they pluck their eyebrows out one hair at a time, then redraw a shapeless arc where it used to be.
I can understand the anger, then, of a woman who gets plucked like a chicken just so that her casual friend can cancel on her at 9 pm to go hang with the boys. 
I understand why baby ghurl movement took off the way it did; if I’m going to present myself to a madman with waxing strips and a hatred for body hair, in addition to getting my hair done, nails manicured, make-up perfected… if I’m going to squeeze into a dress half a size too small and suck in my gut the whole night, the least that man can do is send me fare. And if I decide not to show up, he has no authority to get mad.
Meanwhile, all a man has to do is roll out of bed, sniff three shirts and throw on the least ripe one.
I can understand the anger at a society that declared war on hairy women. We decided, for some reason, that hairy armpits were where we drew the line, and that we wanted our women to look like children down there.
I get it. I am a survivor of the dangerous and traumatic institution that is waxing. And as soon as my wounds heal, I will lead the revolution. Hashtag #BringBackTheBush.

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Waxing Kenyan Men