Waxing, Waning, and other Cycles of the Moon

When you live in NYC the rules are decidedly different than they are anywhere else in the world. This point does not of course need to be made to New Yorkers. We know that we live in a bubble that exists outside the realities of the rest of the universe. What elsewhere would be misconstrued as being either extremely vain or solidly in the realm of the feminine (except in LA) is here thought of only as necessary maintenance. Men get manicures and pedicures, facials and waxing. Personal trainers are the norm not the exception. Hair color is a matter of choice and so for that matter are eyelash and eyebrow coloring. Body hair can be trimmed, waxed, dyed, or any combination of the three. Massages are necessary to maintain good health. Plastic surgery is considered an inalienable right. There is a substantive quality to personal style and grooming that you won’t find in any other city. This is due to the demands of the highly competitive nature of existing; forget actually living in this city.
However, in the process of living, one of the most important relationships you will develop is to discover your own Svengali (if you don’t have the fortitude to make that relationship with yourself) to guide you through the 7 gates of Hell (and Beauty). I had thought that when it came to the realm of physical maintenance that I was an accomplished player. Manicures and pedicures are a bi weekly commitment. Facials are booked at least once a month. The barber is every 2 to 3 weeks. I purchased a clipper many years ago to trim my body hair (including but not limited to pubic hair) to an acceptable length. Shaving cream and razor was used as necessary for ‘the boys’. In the summer when boating bleached out my eyebrows and eyelashes the facialist dyed them back to a dark brown. As far as I knew there was nothing that I was missing: I had it covered.
Then I met my Svengali: an outrageous, diminutive, bleached, constantly smiling, diamond wearing hair dresser that seemingly fell out of the sky and into my life for exactly the 6 weeks that it took to transform my taste level on personal grooming. The assault was subtle and perhaps a touch passive/aggressive. In his inimitable Montreal accent, “What is with those nails? Don’t you get manicures? I cannot believe that someone as sophisticated as you would not have manicures! Awful. Awful. It looks as if a dog has been chewing on your cuticles!” All delivered with a big smile. It was useless to point out that I’d just in fact had one a week ago. “Impossible. (Pronounced Im-PO-see-BLA) You could not ever have had one. There is not a manicurist alive that would do such a Whore-REE-bla job.” Now this elf obviously raised the beauty bar pretty high. I’d after all had many women friends over the years make positive comments on both my manicures and pedicures. They usually followed the compliments up by asking if I wouldn’t perhaps talk to their respective husbands/boyfriends about personal grooming. (That question always gets a “No”). I knew I didn’t look like a laborer but perhaps there are different levels of expertise after all.
“You will come to my salon on Monday. We are having a hospital fund-raiser. All of the proceeds for services and tips are being donated so it’s tax deductible. I will set everything up for you. You will discover what a real manicure and pedicure are!” When I asked the price I was horrified to be told that the services, not including tip were going to set me back a C note. (Usually man and ped cost $25) But what the hell, it’s for a good cause. I could hardly complain about someone combining two of my favorite things; charity and beauty. So on the given Monday I left work early and arrived at the J Sisters Salon on West 57th Street. The entrance is innocuous enough; down a basic hallway to an old fashioned elevator that you have to manually open the inner gate yourself. So far I was thinking this was a rip. Then I entered The Salon. It’s housed in the former mansion of the original Ziegfield showgirl and still quite a beautiful space. I was impressed by the surroundings that I found myself in. Looking around reception and into the front room I could immediately tell that this was where wealthy women came to be pampered. I was led to the next floor by an assistant instead of just being told, “Go upstairs” as one would have been at the place I ordinarily go. This was the Men’s Floor. I appreciated the consideration that the salon had for keeping the sexes separate. One at least wants to perpetuate the illusion that we know nothing about the other sex’s secrets which is hard to do if you’re participating in a unisex beauty feast. I was led to one of 2 chairs that could only be described as princely. It was a high leather chair that vibrated and massaged. In short order my feet were soaking in a whirlpool bath while my hands relaxed in bowls built into the arm rests of the chair. One woman worked on my feet, another on my hands. Both of them are ‘J’ sisters/cousins/somethings. My Svengali stopped by to supervise the women, not that they needed it, but just because that’s who he is. He did not ask what I thought or if I liked it. Instead in his inimitable fashion he said to the women, “Treat him gently. As you can see from the state of his appendages he is a virgin.” I of course turned beet read and muttered to the women something about going every other week but they just kept their heads down and continued with their transformation. I’d seen surgeons with less concentration in the operating arena.
The entire process took one hour. At my former salon it was ½ hour for each. So here I spent the same amount of my time but got twice the service. They didn’t even bother to ask if I wanted polish (The answer to that question is always a resounding NO. Men should never wear polish.) An assistant arrived and went right to the buffing which made my nails glow like one of Anne Rice’s vampires. Not shiny mind you but glowing. Ok, I was hooked. The experience was one of total pampering and it was quite simply the best manicure and pedicure that I’d ever had. Sven stopped by at the end, “You see. I told you so. Perfection. Now you have had a manicure and pedicure. But first, (and here he actually snapped his fingers at an unknown male) you. Do you have a moment to come over here and bring your waxing kit? I see hair where there should be none.” So my knuckles, toes, and the tops of my feet were waxed. Interesting touch in the overall grooming scheme and it actually didn’t hurt. My feet were no longer the feet of a 40 something which I liked immensely. They had not looked this good since I was a very young man. Sven broke my reverie, “Saturday you have an appointment with Helio for a shave and a facial massage at 11.” Considering the ‘beauty high’ that I was experiencing I didn’t even bother to demur. This was if possible better than hitting a sale at Jefferies. I didn’t ask what this was going to set me back ($40 plus $20 for tip, the tip ‘suggested’ of course by Sven, I think $10 would have been sufficient). Dutifully I arrived at 11 am and was this time escorted by Sven up to the men’s floor and introduced to Helio. It had probably been 20 years since I’d had a shave and I was looking forward to this. Although I ordinarily did not ever skip a day shaving I’d given it a miss on Friday because I was determined to get my money’s worth. Helio did not disappoint. It was just as I’d remembered with the steaming towels and fragrant but masculine smelling toners and whatever it is that he used. I didn’t care and did not want an education; after that morning I had no intention of ever shaving myself again. I sat there with eyes closed acknowledging that I’d just instantly developed another addiction. This is what I’ve heard happens to some people the first time they try a specific drug that totally resonates to their entire being. First it was the hands and feet, now the face. I was turning into a major junkie and it was getting expensive. And it’s not as if in Manhattan you can exactly find a cheap place to live to cut down on your overall living costs. The facial massage was unlike anything I’ve ever before experienced. This is not even similar to when the facialist ‘massages’ your face and neck. This was a real massage. When he started all I could think was, “Shit it’s time for a face-lift. He was just able to push the left side of my face over to the right.” By the time he’d finished I felt and looked like a 20 something. I’m staring into the mirror thinking, “he’s massaged muscle tone back into my face! This was a miracle.” So when Sven shows up to mutter his approval he lets me know that on Wednesday night he’s now made an appointment for me with Carlos for waxing. Waxing?! There is nothing on me that needs or is going to get waxing. Ok, perhaps the very small patch of hair at the base of my spine but this gets shaved and Sven didn’t know about this. Unless he is a beauty psychic but I’d never heard of that before. I was getting ready to explain to him that the hair had not grown back on my hands or feet but he was just looking at me like I was stupid. Sven continued to stare at me and then with a smile he glanced down at my crotch. My face instantly turned red again but I managed to address him, “You’ve got to be kidding. You asked about that weeks ago and I answered, ‘I shave’. Period. No one is waxing my nuts. It’s too personal and too embarrassing. Not to mention that I cannot begin to imagine the pain. Forget it.” Still smiling Sven leaned in ever so slightly and lowered his voice, “I thought that you were a real man. Do you mean to tell me that you cannot stand a little bit of pain? It is nothing. Women do this all the time and don’t make any kind of a fuss about it at all. It’s called a Brazilian Bikini Wax and it’s all arranged. Wednesday night at 6. Carlos. Shaving is for amateurs. Why would anyone want stubble there?” He did have a point. But a Brazilian bikini wax? What exactly did that entail? It’s not as if I’d sat around with the guys and discussed the merits of waxing versus shaving and what that entailed.
Wisely I had 2 scotches before keeping my appointment on Wednesday. Unless you are an alcoholic this is a (highly by me) recommended introduction to the procedure. Just knowing that another person was going to be intimately touching me and then potentially causing me pain was enough to want a substance between myself and the upcoming experience. This time I just went to the 4th floor directly and unescorted. I did not want to risk Sven making any comments to surrounding women about my upcoming event. Carlos remembered me from my previous visits and honored me with a warm and welcoming smile. We shook hands and I was instantly at ease. He thankfully had a gentle and comforting manner. He opened the door to his partitioned area and told me to remove all my clothes and lay down on the padded table. As soon as he heard the paper crinkling he was back in the room all smiles and graciousness. As he approached I just stared at the ceiling and imagined myself elsewhere; anywhere but here. He examined my goods and requested, “Ok, thank you we will start with the back. Lay on your stomach please.” Huh? Did I just hear correctly? What do I know about this? Maybe he just needs to get at things from a different angle. The examination starts and his hand glides over my lower back where there was stubble from shaving a few weeks before. “Here is where we will start” states Carlos. I was ok with that. Try out the pain level on something other than my nuts. He applied the warm wax with a wooden tongue depressor and then patted a piece of linen on top. Not so bad so far. He pulled the skin tight and in a fast movement ripped the linen, wax, and hair from my back. How can I describe this? I did not scream which was a good thing. Actually I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t even exhale loudly. But that’s because I was holding my breath. The truth is I couldn’t believe how little it hurt; that was what was surprising. Wax and rip, wax and rip, I actually relaxed and thought, “This is so not bad. I don’t know what I was expecting but this is not it.” Until I realized that Carlos had waxed and was getting to rip the hair off of one of by butt cheeks. Before I could utter a word it was done. I quickly realized that I did not want a rectangular patch of no hair on an otherwise hairy ass so I kept my mouth shut. So this is what was meant by ‘Brazilian Bikini Wax’. (I have always jumped to conclusions too soon; it’s been a terrible fault of mine my entire life.) I relaxed yet again while he finished what he started. Then I realize with a kind of stunned speechlessness that he’d spread my cheeks and the wax was being applied directly onto my asshole. Uh-oh. This is going to hurt (and now I know what a BB wax really is: Brazilian bikini is a polite way of saying butt and balls). The linen is patted and ripped. This time I did consciously hold my breath and much to my surprise again there was very little pain. This was utterly amazing. I left Carlos to his work and decided that although I was definitely not instantly addicted to this (as who but a true masochist would be) I figured I would live with the results (since my hairlessness gave me no other choice) and see what I thought. I rolled onto my back and Carlos waxed my nuts. After perhaps 15 minutes, “I think that will be enough for today,” says Carlos. “You have a bit of bleeding but this is perfectly natural so don’t be upset. When you get home have a cool shower and that will help.” As he’s speaking I realize he’s been applying baby powder over my newly almost hairless areas. This raised another issue as I’d worn dark trousers and black under shorts which became covered with the extra powder as I quickly dressed. Note to self: wear lighter colored pants next time. Who knew about the powder? No one had actually guided me through the whole procedure. I hoped that those in the know on the streets of NYC would look at my power covered pants with some sympathy as I was clearly a neophyte. Who was I kidding? This is NYC. Your may be able to pay for intimate grooming acts but you can’t even buy sympathy here.

A Cool shower and another 2 or 3 scotches (for purely medicinal purposes) and I’m as good as new. Strangely I loved the feeling of no hair on my ass. Not only did it feel young, it was so clean. If there’s one thing in the States we like it’s clean. And if there’s one thing we like in NYC it’s the feeling of young. As to the balls I’d never contort myself into uncomfortable positions again to shave. And no stubble, who knew? Sven did. My Svengali knew.
That was months ago and I am in fact addicted to my new and improved rituals. Mind you the manicures and pedicures are only once a month in a greatly appreciated ‘nod’ to my budget. Carlos is every 3 or 4 weeks like a prescription you refill ‘as needed’. Helio is a treat that I give myself every now and again. I have in fact had to go back to shaving myself on a daily basis. And Sven, well Sven is blessedly onto his next project, whoever that is. I’m grateful for the guidance but I couldn’t have afforded one more intervention. If anything else about my regimes are not up to NYC standards I claim blissful ignorance.