pubes

So at the last three social gatherings I’ve attended, I have been involved in multiple conversations about pubic hair.  Somehow I was singled out as the ‘go to pube girl’ and hit up with questions about styling options and removal techniques.

Sure, I’ve had a bit of experience in maintaining my ‘Map of Tassie’, and just like the old growth forests of the southern isle, I too have succumbed to a bit of deforestation.  Timberrrrrr!

When I was younger – teens and early twenties – I was all about an a la natural nether region, not because I liked it, but because I had no idea what I was supposed to do with it.  As long as it didn’t hang out the sides of my bikini, I was happy.  My beauty therapist friend had tried to indirectly tell me that ‘trimming’ was a thing that people did, but I was completely oblivious to her subtle suggestion and continued rocking on my seventies vibe.

One day, back in my previous life, I came across some ‘literature’ whilst looking for something – I’d like to say I was doing housework, but that would be misleading.  As I flicked through the magazines, purely for the articles, I couldn’t help but notice the images on the pages depicting very well groomed ladies obviously getting themselves dressed for the day.  Some had yet to put their knickers on so it was very clear to see how they chose to keep it tidy down there. I wondered, “Is this how I’m supposed to take care of my pubes?”  It looked way nicer than the lap ‘fro I was sporting, so off I went to get some Nair and a hand mirror.

It took a lot of product and nearly a whole box of tissues, but I finally discovered what all the fuss was about.  I wasn’t quite a baldy, but there was smoothness and tidiness where there had only ever been follicular mayhem.  Bozo the Clown had left the building and in his place was a strapping young Mohican.  I got rid of everything underneath and just left a small, trimmed triangle on top.  There was no going back for me.  It was the year 2000 and I had finally caught up to the pubic stylings of the early nineties.  I felt alive!

Over the next few years, along with the creams, I also dabbled with a few other hair removal techniques.  Waxing left me with an ingrown nightmare, as did epilators, or handheld torture machines and shaving had me looking like I had gravel rash on my front bum – picture that image if you will, of how one would get gravel rash down there, and only there.  Anyway, something that actually worked for me was an electric shaver.  I invested in the best one on the market at the time and rather than having to spend an age on all fours on the bathroom floor or standing with a leg up on the toilet like a proud explorer waiting for the Nair to work its magic, I just gave it a quick once over with the shaver and I was good to go.  No rash, no ingrowns, no sensitivity.  I was onto a winner and recently recommended this option to one of my enquiring friends, a fair bushed beauty about to embark on her maiden journey aboard the SS Bald Muff.

It was not long after enjoying the shaver, that I came into some money, by which I mean, I increased my credit card limit.  Feeling flushed with pretend wealth, I decided to try IPL and treated myself to a package deal for my armpits and pink bits.  It was great and I opted for the same style I’d been sporting since my pubic renaissance.  What surprised me about this treatment was that before each session, they shaved you down.  I thought for sure that I was going to break out or flare up, but I never did.  Instead, whatever that magical little light did, I was now able to use a razor on my most sensitive skin without any repercussions.  Just nicely shaved skin that was even easier to maintain than using the electric shaver.

As the sessions progressed and the hair thinned out, I felt more and more relaxed about reclining back in the clinic chair, pantsless and spread-eagle waiting for my treatment.  The therapist and I had become great mates and we chatted away throughout the whole ordeal like long lost pals.  This one day was no exception, and she must have been feeling so comfortable that she became distracted and shaved off the lot.  I had gone to Brazil.  I was Kojac.  It was all gone and I was completely shocked.  The therapist was apologetic and said she could just avoid that part with the light and it would just grow back as normal, but as I sat there staring at it, my feelings changed.  It was in that moment that I realised, I hated pubes, and that was ok. They served no purpose for me and I couldn’t be arsed with shaping them into the perfect triangle, and then trimming that triangle to the perfect length.  How easy would it be to just get in there and get rid of it all each time?  I thought that maybe I’d look a little ‘inappropriate’, but my hip to waist ratio was extreme enough that I didn’t feel like a little girl.  It just seemed like the practical thing to do.

Working my way through my thirties, another blindingly obvious reason to stay bald became oh so apparent.  The dreaded greys.  Unfortunately my cuffs and collars do match and just as I am blessed with glitter strands up top, so too is my bush a-sparkling.  I’m not a hundred yet, so I am far from ready to embrace and celebrate a visually aging box.  My husband is already younger than me, I don’t need to give him any more reminders of that, especially in the throes of passion.  So for me, it’s not on, unless it’s all off.  I’d like to invest in another round of IPL or similar treatment, but nothing that I know about to date can rid you of the greys permanently.  They are like cockroaches in a nuclear holocaust – they just won’t die.  If only Valyrian steel razors were a thing, ’cause if it can kill white walkers… patent pending.

So that would be the story of my pubic hair – from Chinchilla Persian to one of those weird hairless pussy cats.  I double dare you to share yours, especially if it involves vajazzles, mirkins, dye jobs or some creative shaping, a lightning bolt perhaps?  Also feel free to list your favourite names for your lady bits – it always makes for hilarious reading.  I’ll start – moot.

LISTEN : PRIMUS Wynona’s Big Brown Beaver