Somehow I have made it through three and a half years of
blogging without inflicting friends and strangers with my long elevator speech
about pubic hair. Pubic hair used to be my Designated Issue. A Designated Issue
is a matter you deem to be of such utmost importance that should you succeed at
dealing with it, then all of your problems will disintegrate. Common designated
issues include paying off your mortgage, finding a life partner, or perhaps
finally achieving a sought after yoga posture. Once you cross the Designated
Issue finish line, the whole world becomes easy. In my early twenties, this is
how I felt about pubic hair. A good friend of mine from high school shared in
my misery. Because we had thick curly hair on our heads, we were certain that
the hairy reality down there was much worse than everyone else’s. The roots ran
deeper and our razors left behind itchier, redder and more hideous bumps.
Also, I’d been traumatized by the Vegan Life Coach who had once complained that the hairy abundance on my nether regions was “not aesthetically pleasing.”
One summer I was back for a visit to my home town, when my friend and I decided that enough was enough. It was time to get our bushes ripped off professionally. We found a newly certified aesthetician who raved about the sugar wax she used to complete her full Brazilians. I have yet to find anyone quite as cheerful and enthusiastic about ripping out pubes.
“It won’t hurt that much at all,” she promised. The cost was 35 dollars. We considered drinking beforehand but our appointment was at noon and we decided that maybe this was too early. My friend popped a couple of advil and I went in sober.
“This will be so easy. You’re so flexible,” said the Cheerful Ripper. Then I took off my underpants. “Wow.” she said. Our sessions took about 45 minutes each. I tried not to make too much noise. My poor friend cried out profusely and consistently. It was the closest I have come to witnessing a birth.
“You guys are hairy beasts,” the Cheerful Ripper exclaimed. When it was all over, my fellow Hairy Beast had sweat stains down to her waist.
“You’re going to feel so great though,” the Cheerful Ripper promised. As fate would have it, we felt okay.
Back in Montreal a few days later, I walked up the stairs to my apartment after biking home from the yoga studio. Something felt a bit off. In the bathroom, I found a large pinkish bump along my groin.
Even though I hadn’t had sex in ages, I felt absolutely certain that I had herpes. I walked across the street to the hospital where I begged for a spot at the walk-in clinic. Three and a half hours later, the doctor on call said that herpes was highly unlikely. She took a swab anyways and suggested I might come to the hospital’s anxiety workshops.
My herpes scare provided no cure for my Designated Issue. I made room in my poor student budget to get my pubes waxed off every four weeks or so. I also had to budget for alcohol since going sober was far too painful and humiliating. In the metro, I sipped Mason jars filled with fruit juice and vodka. Mostly I went to little spas run by Asian women. Alas, none of them had sugar wax and I often hobbled away with a burning, pockmarked crotch.
“Oh. Very hairy,” said almost every single aesthetician I went to.
“The ass?” one lady asked after forty five minutes of seething torture. I rolled over and spread my cheeks.
After a few months of this, I found a lady in Old Montreal who used sugar wax. Everything in her spa was maroon and felt very exotic. Even so, aggressive ripping was still involved and my pubic area continued to suffer from its fair share of blood and pock marks. At least I was pretty sure it wasn’t herpes.
One time the ingrown hairs were particularly bad.
“You have infection,” said the Exotic Sugar Lady. “You are touching. Don’t touch!” Through my vodka buzz, I tried to promise Exotic Sugar Lady that in fact, I didn’t spend my spare time rubbing my ingrown hairs. She didn’t believe me. Cheerful Ripper suggested using a dry brush. This brought only moderate success, and as my student loans dwindled away, I felt it was harder to justify the 50 dollar monthly expense.
I gave home waxing a try and managed for about a year. This practice left me patchy and blotchy. It also became less sustainable as my tolerance for drinking during the day consistently decreased. I asked my fellow Hairy Beast how the pube situation was going, and she reported, “I just shave the sides and call it a day.”
In preparation for my Sex Trip to go see the Boatman in Halifax, I decided I would try for a similar tactic. I used a combination of the sketchy toxic smelling nair, a new razor and some tweezers. The Boatman had no complaints, but within a few days I was itchy and pockmarked. Despite this, the Boatman still invited me to move in with him.
When I arrived in Halifax a week later, we obviously got into the habit of having sex every day. Eventually, the Boatman noticed my red marks that had become worse from persistent shaving.
“You know, babe,” he said. “You should just let yourself heal. Let it grow.”
Also, I’d been traumatized by the Vegan Life Coach who had once complained that the hairy abundance on my nether regions was “not aesthetically pleasing.”
One summer I was back for a visit to my home town, when my friend and I decided that enough was enough. It was time to get our bushes ripped off professionally. We found a newly certified aesthetician who raved about the sugar wax she used to complete her full Brazilians. I have yet to find anyone quite as cheerful and enthusiastic about ripping out pubes.
“It won’t hurt that much at all,” she promised. The cost was 35 dollars. We considered drinking beforehand but our appointment was at noon and we decided that maybe this was too early. My friend popped a couple of advil and I went in sober.
“This will be so easy. You’re so flexible,” said the Cheerful Ripper. Then I took off my underpants. “Wow.” she said. Our sessions took about 45 minutes each. I tried not to make too much noise. My poor friend cried out profusely and consistently. It was the closest I have come to witnessing a birth.
“You guys are hairy beasts,” the Cheerful Ripper exclaimed. When it was all over, my fellow Hairy Beast had sweat stains down to her waist.
“You’re going to feel so great though,” the Cheerful Ripper promised. As fate would have it, we felt okay.
Back in Montreal a few days later, I walked up the stairs to my apartment after biking home from the yoga studio. Something felt a bit off. In the bathroom, I found a large pinkish bump along my groin.
Even though I hadn’t had sex in ages, I felt absolutely certain that I had herpes. I walked across the street to the hospital where I begged for a spot at the walk-in clinic. Three and a half hours later, the doctor on call said that herpes was highly unlikely. She took a swab anyways and suggested I might come to the hospital’s anxiety workshops.
My herpes scare provided no cure for my Designated Issue. I made room in my poor student budget to get my pubes waxed off every four weeks or so. I also had to budget for alcohol since going sober was far too painful and humiliating. In the metro, I sipped Mason jars filled with fruit juice and vodka. Mostly I went to little spas run by Asian women. Alas, none of them had sugar wax and I often hobbled away with a burning, pockmarked crotch.
“Oh. Very hairy,” said almost every single aesthetician I went to.
“The ass?” one lady asked after forty five minutes of seething torture. I rolled over and spread my cheeks.
After a few months of this, I found a lady in Old Montreal who used sugar wax. Everything in her spa was maroon and felt very exotic. Even so, aggressive ripping was still involved and my pubic area continued to suffer from its fair share of blood and pock marks. At least I was pretty sure it wasn’t herpes.
One time the ingrown hairs were particularly bad.
“You have infection,” said the Exotic Sugar Lady. “You are touching. Don’t touch!” Through my vodka buzz, I tried to promise Exotic Sugar Lady that in fact, I didn’t spend my spare time rubbing my ingrown hairs. She didn’t believe me. Cheerful Ripper suggested using a dry brush. This brought only moderate success, and as my student loans dwindled away, I felt it was harder to justify the 50 dollar monthly expense.
I gave home waxing a try and managed for about a year. This practice left me patchy and blotchy. It also became less sustainable as my tolerance for drinking during the day consistently decreased. I asked my fellow Hairy Beast how the pube situation was going, and she reported, “I just shave the sides and call it a day.”
In preparation for my Sex Trip to go see the Boatman in Halifax, I decided I would try for a similar tactic. I used a combination of the sketchy toxic smelling nair, a new razor and some tweezers. The Boatman had no complaints, but within a few days I was itchy and pockmarked. Despite this, the Boatman still invited me to move in with him.
When I arrived in Halifax a week later, we obviously got into the habit of having sex every day. Eventually, the Boatman noticed my red marks that had become worse from persistent shaving.
“You know, babe,” he said. “You should just let yourself heal. Let it grow.”
Over the past three and half years, there have been a
multitude of signs that the Boatman and I are meant for each other. The “Let it
grow” speech is one of these signs. From a bare waxed vag to a seventies bush, the Boatman is happy with all of it.
“It’s all about variety,” he says. What a saint.
Judging from models at the Boatman’s life drawing nights, it
seems that almost all adults around my age have joined the “Hairless
Generation.” Although zero pubes can be fun, exhilarating and exfoliating, it
should definitely not be obligatory. To be repulsed if someone lacks the bald
crotch of a seven year old seems highly questionable.
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Caption: Life Drawing Model from the Hairless Generation
Drawing by the Boatman
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That said, I hear that in India, you can get yourself waxed
for pretty cheap. I thought maybe this would be a relatively interesting
experience for the blog. Since I don’t wear Kino shorts, I was all set to let
my pubes grow for the occasion. Then my friend invited me to a secret silent
pool for the afternoon. I decided that this would be an excellent opportunity
to chat while attempting to even out the farmer’s tan that I’ve developed from
constantly covering my shoulders. Of course I would come. With bells. Despite
my sincere efforts to have a fully liberated crotch, I had mixed feelings about
letting stray hairs poke out the sides of my red two-piece bathing suit. My
waxing excursion would have to be postponed. So I shaved the sides and called
it a day.
Probably red bumps appeared within approximately 27 and a half minutes.
Oh well. At least it looked like I tried.
The End.
Probably red bumps appeared within approximately 27 and a half minutes.
Oh well. At least it looked like I tried.
The End.
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| The Kino shorts that got lost in the mail, giving me a pass on grooming. Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook Twitter: @mypelvicfloor My $2.99 self-help book, I Let Go Menstrual Blood, Peanut Butter I cling to things until they die Everything You Need To Know About Butt Club Spiritual Beard, Secular Vagina |
