Hitch gets waxed, names his newly shorn schwanz

It’s part of the initiation ritual for the new atheist religion he’s founding.

My appointment’s next Tuesday.

No, it’s part of his jokey self-improvement series for Vanity Fair, in which our curmudgeonly litterateur goes to the spa, the dentist, and the salon in a semi-successful bid to turn an aging British man into an aging American one. Fade in…

You ladies will know what I mean by the stirrup position, which I was now unceremoniously instructed to assume. That’s to say, I braced one leg up while Ms. Padilha braced the other. And she does this for a living. To be Dr. Lituchy and to spend every day up to your elbows in other people’s oral cavities would be tough enough. But this … And wait: surely you can’t be serious about putting … Oh Jesus. I was overwhelmed by a sudden access of lava-like agony, accompanied by the vertiginous sensation that there was no there there. Stunned into silence, I listened slack-jawed as she told of her plans to expand into the London market, and to fly to Dubai to demonstrate her technique. To call this a “growth industry” might be a slight mistake: the J Sisters will not rest until every blade has been torn from every crevice. Tomorrow, the world. But today, your humble servant. And my only question was: “Where’s the rest of me?” We did not take a “before” picture, so with your indulgence I shall not share the “after” one. The total effect, I may tell you, is somewhat bizarre. The furry pelt that is my chest stretches southward over the protuberant savanna that is my stomach, and then turns into a desert region. Below the waist, a waste. I suppose I could have had the whole torso denuded, but then I would have looked even more like a porpoise than I already do.

And the schwanz? “Smooth Operator.”

A fine idea for a blog series, actually. One wonders, how much beautification would it take to turn a beta male into an alpha…?