It’s bad enough that Marom Unger needs a squirt of Botox under his armpits every six months to help curb excessive perspiration. Even more humiliating, though, is sitting in his doctor’s office surrounded by women.
Mr. Unger, a restaurateur in New York, knows that his waiting room companions are probably so consumed by their own cosmetic injustices that they barely notice the XY chromosomes in their midst. Still, he feels as if he’s parading around with a wad of toilet paper Velcroed to his heel. Naked.