I saw the coupon on one of those Amazon “deals” I get periodically, like for ice cream, massages, dinner for two, or whatever some local small business is promoting. This one said “Brazilian wax for $19.95”, and it was in some little place in Brooklyn Heights.

I’d had one once before, at a place on Steinway Street in Astoria a couple of years ago. That one was $25, and done by a very competent, no-nonsense Brazilian woman. Her national pride was on the line and she was going to be great. Her I found on line after looking for recommendations for the “least painless” Brazilian wax, and there were scads of testimonials for this woman, and after pestering my wife about “when” for weeks, she finally agreed to go and we set off on a cool spring day for our first Brazilians.

The idea didn’t happen to come to me overnight, it was gradual, coinciding with the gradual encroachment of more and more grey pubic hairs on my you-know-what’s. That in it self was dismaying, making me think about my aging process, but to me it was just plain aesthetics. Having my you-know-what’s turning grey was unacceptable.

The other influence was the influence of media, having all of these young beautiful girls in the public eye having public displays of their you-know –what’s all over the internet, proving-not only are they going commando, but they going bare as well! That and watching an episode of Oprah (my wife was watching it, of course) where a bunch of women came on to talk about how getting Brazilians had given new oomph to their sex lives. It was the one time I was thrilled to be watching Oprah with my wife.

“You hear that honey? Their husbands couldn’t keep their hands off of them! Does that sound like something you’d like to try? I would do it too, of course.”

“Maybe. But doesn’t it hurt?”

“Nonsense! How much can it hurt? Couldn’t be worse than a tattoo, and you’ve got two of those.”

“I’m pretty busy now, maybe next month. But you have to find a place and arrange it.”

That was it, I had gotten a fingernail under the edge of the tape and I wasn’t going to quit till I’d pulled off all of it.

In the meantime, just to find out how painful it was, at least for me, I’d picked up a home waxing kit at Whole Foods. Yes, they carry them in case you are interested.

I followed the directions, using an electric razor to get the offending hairs down to a quarter of and inch, the recommended length, and then applying the hot mixture “away from the direction of the hair growth”, as instructed. Next, I took a strip of the paper and burnished it down with the little provided Popsicle stick. Of course I had watched a few YouTube videos to get the hang of it, and everything was going swimmingly. I was ready for the moment of truth. I grabbed the end of the strip between two fingers, and with the other hand stretching the skin tight, I pulled IN the direction of hair growth. YEE-OWW! It did hurt. But I didn’t pull hard or fast enough.

I tried again, on a different patch of hair. I looked. There was plenty of hair on the strip, but there was still plenty of hair down there. It was patchy and there were little drops of blood here and there. I got out the razor and the shaving cream.

I tried once more a couple of weeks later, with pretty much the same results. Maybe one could do their legs, but you-know-what’s were out of the question. At least my wife liked it. I convinced her to let me shave her, and after much nervous giggling, it was done. Then she started to complain that it itched, or “bit” as they say in Polish.

“If we do the wax it won’t ‘bite” I told her.

The day came and we made our trek out to Astoria for the appointment I’d made on line. The one for me, the “Male Brazilian” was a special, $25. Hers was full price, $40. We decided she might as well have her legs done, another $35. My turn came and the no-nonsense little muscular woman waxed, stripped, and trimmed, then ordered me to turn over. “For what?” “Well, I have to do your backside, that’s part of the deal.”

“It’s OK, we can skip my backside.”

“Sir, you MUST turn over, NOW!”

I walked out of there with a very smooth bare ass.

That was three years ago, and until I found the Amazon thing I thought I was relegated to the trusty razor, that “bites.”

I bought the coupon in the fall, but an email alerted me that it was about to expire. I called to make an appointment. It was an eastern European woman, I am quite familiar with the accent.

“It’s for me and my wife.” She made back-to-back appointments for us.

We showed up that morning, all excited to the little salon on Pineapple Street. I gave my printout to the woman, who scanned them and directed us to hang our jackets. Suddenly she jumped up from her reception desk and waving the printout in my face said

“Wait! You want Brazilian too?”

“Yes, we discussed it on the phone.”

“I’m sorry, we only do Brazilian wax for women, not for men.”

“But it says Unisex salon on your coupon.”

“Unisex for everything else except Brazilian.” She was adamant.

“You can have mani-pedi. You want mani-pedi?”

“Sure, I’ll take a mani-pedi.” So I got the mani-pedi and Danusia got the wax. She told me later that this woman wasn’t as good as the Brazilian woman.

I let the big Russian woman who gave me the mani-pedi put clear lacquer on my toenails, but I drew the line at my fingernails. A guy can only go so far.