Remember the murmurs in the locker room, the gentle chiding about ‘natural hair color’? Pick up a Playboy or try to book a last minute ‘Brazilian’. The waxing lady in my hometown in Montana—where hair is also insulation—tells me she’s got clients as young as fourteen and as old as eighty. Some want their Betty dyed, a few want something called a ‘runway strip’. Most go for the full Monty.
To anyone over fifty, being hairless down there conjures images of eight year old girls, or the time my grandmother’s polyester robe slid horrifyingly open. A curly little bush was the sign of a woman in full flower—a bald one was too raw or too ripe.
Over the years I’d toyed with the idea a few times as I held the razor aloft in the shower, but last Saturday I was motivated to mutilate myself.
I felt it before I saw it: that distinct stripped-wire sensation of a stray gray. The light is bad in the shower, but there was no fooling me. I considered giving it a good tug. Then I saw my razor on the shower shelf, grimacing, drooling.
I began to rationalize: it’s warm, it’s moist, and it’s hairy. Three strikes. If I thought about it much longer, I’d run out of hot water: I manhandled that damn plastic razor and began to hack away.
Within two minutes I was standing in four inches of water, sporting a Big Sky version of a Granny Goth Twat. I had a pubic and plumbing disaster. The only way to pull this look off would be to pierce my labia and dust off some old Sid Vicious albums.
I sidled out of the shower, put on something loose fitting, and headed for Target.
A new razor, an electric trimmer, chemical remover, or bikini wax? If I cut myself, I’d have to bite on a washcloth every time I used the loo. Yeah, right, like I’m going to stick an electric razor down there…I could already visualize an adverse reaction to a chemical depilatory; this may be Montana, but there ain’t any horses that big. I saw the Forty Year Old Virgin: bikini wax, my ass.
Tucked in a corner was a little display of hot pink mini-razors, and something called a ‘Finishing Touch’. I just hoped it wasn’t literal.
My rash decision had taken up most of a Saturday, and as I sat on my bedroom floor, spread eagle on a towel with a magnifying mirror, my Finishing Touch whirred with purpose. I was determined. I wanted my crotch to shine.
As I parted the delicate tissues, I was shocked to discover my pink puffy parts sported hairs where I didn’t even know I had skin. It took some nerve for hairs to grow there, I reprimanded the orifice aloud.
The sound of those little hairs hitting the clipper was like chopping rough off beside the green. I winced and went on, not wanting to justify a Vaginal Van Dyke.
When I finally emerged from my boudoir, I revealed my new look to my husband, who looked up from his crossword puzzle and said evenly, “That looks weird.” Actually, he said it twice.
I plodded back upstairs alone and took a shower.
The sensation of warm water against shorn hooch is not soon to be forgotten. Perhaps there is a rationale for an unholy hair removal regime after all.
My nether regions are red hot, even if my husband is lukewarm.
Maybe you should have had your husband participoate in the make-over…but since that’s now a forfeited opportunity, conscript him into the maintenance regime.
It’s always more fun to drive a car you tuned up yourself.
Geez Sandy. Geez.
Hilarious description,Claire. Any woman who has tried this can relate. I just finished a book by Rachel Remens, M.D., and she commented that we do not use the word “vulva” for this region, and that is what it is called; the vagina is different. Her point is that we females can refer to our anatomy by its real name and give each part its due. One would not call a scrotum a penis, nor vice versa. I think we should spread the word.