In a culture that venerates grooming, I always felt self-conscious about my body hair. But intimate encounters with a series of beauticians helped me see life differently
It was my post-college girlfriend who introduced me to Avital. She was seeing Avital herself. From my apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, I took the F train down to Midwood in south Brooklyn and walked past rows of low-slung homes until I reached hers. I used the below-ground entrance, as I’d been told.
Avital herself answered the door. (Most of the names here have been changed.) She wore sneakers, a below-the-knee skirt and a wig. She kept her right hand out of the way so I wouldn’t try to shake it. Behind her was a suburban-style basement converted into a kind of doctor’s office, with a treatment room off the main hallway. Inside, I removed my shirt and sat on a medical table laid with exam-table paper.
About Author
More Stories
My husband left me last Christmas. How do I get closure?
We didn’t make it to the Paralympics, but we still have hope: the Gazan paracyclist
Ouch! Solving the riddle of pain