London - Without a doubt, it is a dilemma that affects even the most gentlemanly of us in the summer heat. How do you keep from, ahem, perspiring?
It’s been on my mind recently, especially when I’m on the Tube. Every commuter is painfully aware of the smell of London’s Victorian Underground system.
Hundreds of different perfumes and aftershaves compete daily with stale air, smelly trainers, people tucking into late breakfasts and, of course, body odour. The hotter the day, the worse the smells.
And that’s my problem. For I have a confession to make. I, Andrew Pierce, am an unbearably sweaty man. And this wretchedly hot summer has only made things worse.
Take a commute I was on just a few weeks ago. It was scorching outside and my deodorant had failed. Again. And it was only 9am. As the train remained motionless, the poor woman standing next to me was trapped under my armpit, which was perched a few inches above her twitching nostrils.
As my embarrassment increased, rivulets of sweat ran down my face and my previously crisp blue shirt.
I never used to have a sweating problem. In fact, I could easily go without deodorant for days on end. But for some reason, as I’ve got older, my armpits just aren’t what they used to be.
As that unfortunate woman cowered beneath me, she at least spared my blushes by saying nothing. After what seemed like an age, the train spluttered back into life and I muttered an apology under my breath as I made a rapid exit at the next station.
What could cure my sweaty problem? God knows I’ve tried every anti-perspirant going. Perfumed deodorant sticks. Unscented ones. Aerosol sprays.
But all they’ve ever succeeded in doing is bringing me out in a rash. Apparently skin irritation can occur when high levels of aluminium chloride, a main ingredient in deodorant, blocks the pores.
And so I sought professional help. It was to lead me to try the most extraordinary cures – and endure untold humiliation.
I started with a nice lady pharmacist at a Central London chemist.
The pharmacist proceeded to reel off a succession of weird and wonderful remedies.
Had I thought of seeking counselling from a psychotherapist to relieve my stress levels? No, no, no! I’m not mad. Just sweaty.
Another method known as a sympathectomy involves clamping the nerves that supply the sweat glands, but that sounds painful and requires surgery.
There is also a treatment known as lontophoresis, which involves soaking the sweat points in a basin of water and then passing a mild electric current through them.
It sounds like the kind of thing that goes on at Guantanamo Bay, so that was also a big “no”.
Was there anything that didn’t involve electrocution or the surgeon’s knife, I asked in despair. There was, she replied. The Apple Vinegar remedy.
Confused? So was I. The idea is, and I’m not joking, that you apply apple vinegar (or indeed, any other vinegar, including the malt sort you use to liven up your fish and chips) to your armpits.
It’s supposed to saturate the sweat pores, naturalising odour, and create a drying effect. I’m afraid all it did for me was leave my shirt with a large brown stain, and it still reeked of vinegar even after several solo spins in the washing machine.
Desperate, I tried the pharmacist’s next suggestion: baking soda.
The housewife’s favourite powder is alkaline, whereas your body’s sweat is acidic. The theory is that when the two mix they create a gas that is supposed to evaporate your sweat.
Feeling like a complete idiot, I nevertheless followed the instructions and mixed the baking soda with water until it turned into a thick paste.
I then painted the mixture on to my armpits.
Of course, it didn’t work, and left my armpits feeling as though they had been dipped in concrete – dry, cracked and unbearable.
It was after those failed experiments that I made that nightmare Tube trip.
I was on my way to Harley Street’s Freedom Health clinic, where I was scheduled for an appointment to check on my recent treatment for male pattern baldness.
Called Nanopeptide Mesotherapy, it involved a cocktail of vitamins and minerals being injected directly into my scalp.
Lee Garrett, the miracle worker who had halted my male pattern baldness, seemed sympathetic as I walked into his consulting room literally dripping wet.
“You know what you need?” he said. My ears pricked up, thinking he had discovered a revolutionary new under-arm stick.
“You need Botox!” he said.
I felt absolutely deflated – not to say a bit offended. Surely I didn’t look that old and haggard?
But my protests faded away as I realised Garrett was, in fact, talking about Botox to relieve the condition that he described as hyperhidrosis, otherwise known as excessive sweating.
Hyperhidrosis affects about three percent of the population. It can start at any age and its causes range from diabetes to obesity, high blood pressure, spicy foods and excessive alcohol.
Most people produce about a litre of sweat each day, but people with hyperhidrosis can produce up to ten times as much. You can suffer from hyperhidrosis of the face, armpits, hands, trunk or feet.
Botox works on the armpits, feet, forehead and lower back by blocking the nerve messages that stimulate sweat production – thus preventing perspiration. At a cost of £500 (R7 500), it lasts for six months to a year.
It sounded like the miracle I was after, and so I begged Garrett to give me the needle.
Indeed, Botox for hyperhidrosis is not half as painful as the injections you have for wrinkles. That’s because you need only inject just under the skin to target the sweat glands, and not into the muscle as you have to for wrinkles.
If that still sounds too much, you can opt for an anaesthetic cream, which is pasted on your armpits 30 minutes before, but I decided to go without.
Garrett shaved under my arms and then started the injections, which felt no worse than a pin-prick. They left little white nodules under the skin that slowly dissipated, before red dots appeared in their wake. Within 10 minutes, the whole thing was done and dusted.
It’s supposed to take between five to seven days for the Botox to take effect. But, obviously impatient for results, I left the house two days later without any deodorant. I felt apprehensive as the Tube door closed behind me. It was about 9am and, as ever, it stank to high heaven.
But, I’m delighted to report that, for once, it was nothing to do with me.
Doctors say that there is a 90 percent success rate, and unsurprisingly Botox is now in big demand for those who sweat profusely on first dates or have to make presentations in front of colleagues at work.
Now, even in the deepest and stuffiest tunnels on the Tube, I can cling on to the overhead hand rails without worrying about damp circles or offending the sensibilities of women commuters. – Daily Mail