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Just before Christmas I decided to do something daring, at least on a metrosexual level. Now I'm not a cyclist, nor do I spin and walk around at gym in lycra shorts but I am half Greek, the bottom half it seems. I was blessed with wonderfully hairy legs and a chest as smooth as a baby's bum.

So it was time to level the playing fields in a way. It was also a week away from going on a beach holiday, so I thought it might just be the right thing to do.

And before you ask, no, I'm not gay. Besides, as a wise man once said: "Chicks dig it." I convinced myself of this and booked an appointment for a wax.

Yes, a wax. I have shaved my legs before, and it's not all that great. I used to do it for swimming back in the day when I still wore a school uniform and it was always a messy affair that resulted in more blood than necessary. A professional would have to step in this time.

I bumped into an old family friend that happened to be working at a male-only salon in the swanky mall down the road from me and it was a perfect excuse to catch up. Besides, she offered me a 20 percent discount.

I was told by friends that the pain was unbearable, even worse than getting a tattoo — a kind of pain which I still had fresh in my memory, but I couldn't see how it was possible.

Being prepared for the worst, I decided to arrive early and give myself some time to have a drink or two. I settled for an espresso instead of a sherry, I thought if I was going to bleed then I should at least stay away from alcohol.

And then the time came, I was called in. Feeling like a convict walking to the gallows I slowly made my way through the corridor to an empty room.

Well empty, except for a solid bed and all sorts of contraptions lying around. It looked like an operating theatre and before I could turn around to change my mind the door had closed behind me.

I was alone, and very, very uncomfortable. So I did what came naturally: I took off my pants and lay down on the bed.

It was a good thing I had remembered to not go commando that day.

My friend decided to not let me go through all the pain for too long, so she brought a friend and they decided to do a leg each. Wonderful — two women at my feet... things weren't all bad.

I lay down on my stomach as they rubbed some sort of strange cream and talcum powder on my legs. Then a surge of heat ran up my leg. I didn't even think that the wax would be hot. But it didn't last long, because there is nothing like taking your mind of hot wax on bare skin like immediately ripping it off.

It wasn't all that bad, though, the thought of it was a lot worse. That was until they got to the inside of my thighs. It seems that the hair there is particularly stubborn, and I still have bruises from the ordeal.

It's not like I cried or anything, I'm a big boy and over that kind of thing. But this is not an excercise that I would take up very often.

I'll leave it up to women — I don't think I could repeatedly put myself through so much agony all in the name of looking smooth and beautiful. Even if it is the ultimate in metrosexuality. Nope, this male is going to learn to embrace his hairy roots.

When he's not slogging away in the IT industry, Papadopulos is a columnist for iafrica.com.