Nowadays it is perfectly acceptable for a man to have had a spa treatment or two, but a few individuals stubbornly cling to the notion that if Jack Bauer didn't need a manicure to save the world, then neither do they. We are quite certain, however, that if Bauer had more than 24 hours to stop a terrorist bombing plot, he wouldn't object to a calming facial that would sort out a few of his stress lines. Determined to prove that a real man would be able to handle what women go through on a regular basis, we sent our resident neanderthal Richard Watt (pictured) to undergo a series of beautifying rituals that would challenge his inner manliness.
Monday
Melo Spa, Hyatt Regency, Sha Tin
For a spa virgin like me the weirdest thing about going to get a chest and stomach wax is that they make you wear a pair of disposable blue underpants for it.
I only have two questions for my therapist: 'Why the disposable underpants? How bad can this be?'
She reassures me that everything is OK and that the waxing should be fun. The mellow music, sea view and my own private jacuzzi in the new treatment room set my mind at ease.
But let me tell you an obvious fact about man waxing - it isn't fun. I don't know much about the physics or chemistry behind it, but what I can tell you is that as soon as the wax leaves its hot tub it starts to harden, and it's this hardening that causes the most distress. It means that as the therapist slowly begins to spatula the goo on to my chest some individual hairs seem to get caught up in it as it hardens, and so even before the real waxing starts some of the hair is slowly plucked out, one by one, as the little wooden spatula scrapes across my nipples.