And my groin is itching like fuck.
If you ever find yourself thinking, "you know what, I'll try it just this once, millions of people do it every day and they're just fine, let's see what the fuss is about" then fucking don't. Whatever it is you were thinking of doing, stop.
So I had a sore down there. Usually that's the end of a bad decision story, but no, this is where it starts, so you know it can only get worse. It was a bad one too, all burning and oozing and red. Nasty business. And since it was on my outer labia, and I am nothing if not wholly apathetic-to-vaguely-proud about the size and shape of my glorious bush, I couldn't take care of it. A grand bush is a divine thing, because why else would God speak through them? Try and slather cream on there and it becomes a whole different beast. After trying to apply cream and ointments and band-aids it honestly looked like something Jabba the Hutt might feed his captives to. Clearly that wasn't going to work.
Long story short, I shaved my pubes.
At first just the patch with the sore, but that looked awful, just this sad little bald patch. So I got it all. Just all of it. Because I thought, well, why not have a new life experience?
I did my research. Of course I did. I've got anxieties so bad, I need to consult five different recipe sites to verify that I'm absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt using the best cheese and bread available for grilled cheese. Then I have to research those sites to find out if their reputation is any good. I can't leave my desk chair without checking three times whether I've got everything I need, and I don't need anything to go to the kitchen for a coffee refill. You think I'm going to go to town on my undercarriage with nothing but a pair of scissors and a happy-go-lucky disposition? No. So I researched shaving your groin. I did. It was awful.
This guide has six steps explaining how to actually do it, two of which are "own scissors" and "don't shed pubes all over the house like a carefree flower child love guru." The next dozens of steps are all about styles. This struck me as ridiculously optimistic. I'm looking up information on how to safely take bladed tools near my clitoris, don't fucking come at me with cutesy star patterns and landing strips. How about you tell me how to twist my legs out of the way so I can have both hands free to not slice off my labia? How about that?
So that didn't help. But then how hard could it really be? I thought I'd just go for it. Live a little. Start snipping and see where the day goes, loose and breezy.
First of all, how? Just... how does anyone even... HOW? Do you have any idea the sort of gymnastics I had to pull off to get a razor up in my butt crack? Fuck that. I'm so uncoordinated I got a head injury trying to pull off my fifteen minute beginner relaxation yoga routine. I'm not joking. That routine is so mellow half of it is napping. Cracked my goddamn skull. I am in no way qualified to twist into a pretzel and take an edged grooming tool to my nethers.
For the record, it is my personal and considered opinion that no beauty regimen should include any step where you end up putting a leg in your neck, pulling skin folds apart with one hand while holding a goddamn bladed device in the other all the while staring up your own goddamn cervix in the mirror. No. That is taking things too far. I'll do the heels. I'll do the bras. Fuck, I'll even pay a stranger to rip the hair out of my face with tweezers if you nag me long enough, but there is no excuse, no reason, no motivation persuasive enough for me to end up regularly juggling mirrors and knives in an attempt to scrape off my ass beard. No. Fuck you and the shithouse lunatic social standars you rode in on.
But I did it. I got it all, ass crack to glorious mound. Then I cried a little, because now I look like a pudgy naked twelve-year-old standing on a carpet of pubes, and there's no situation in life where that isn't tremendously sad. It's creepy and weird and for the first time in my life, I got to experience the horror of looking in the mirror and absolutely hating what I saw. So that was fun.
People talk about shaving your pubes like it's something you just sort of do between shampoo and teeth brushing, and they lie. I'll bet it was advertisers. Who else but people with a deeply nefarious agenda would tell women old enough to have pubes to shave them all off? Who else would profit from making it sound smooth and easy? It is not that. But then I also wonder if there's some trick I don't know, some sort of secret ninja technique taught and preserved by the secret wing chun sifus of crotch scraping. It would explain why all the people we employ to get up in our business with hot wax and knives are Asian ladies.
Which brings me to why. I know why I did it. Weeping sores and curiosity, which is an excellent combination of reasons to do anything and I stand by that. But why, generally speaking? What's the draw? What's the purpose?
That's it. I'm not leading into some grand point about beauty standards and hairy feminism. Don't get me wrong, I'm 100% convinced that future generations are going to learn about this phase where we collectively decided that every hair below the eyebrows has got to go and roll their eyes at how stupid old-timey people were, just like my classmates used to do when we learned about those ancient Egyptian perfume head cones. Except those perfume cones served a goddamn function. They were for hygiene. Getting rid of your body hair is the diametric opposite of hygiene. So why? Why this? I just don't know. I know why I shave my legs: because the feel of a silk skirt on freshly shaven legs is more erotic than Japanese cartoon elf boys sticking their tongues down each other's holes, straight up. I shave my armpits when the mood strikes me because hey, I grew up in this culture too, but also it makes me feel clean when I've been sweating. Is that it? Is it part of feeling clean? I'm seriously asking.
Because I don't feel clean. I suppose I did a little at first, when I stopped being creeped out by my own reflection. But take this from someone who has never successfully convinced a whiny boyfriend to fucking shave before going down: stubble in the groin is the worst. The very fucking worst.
If I were an android, and to this day I won't let anyone talk me out of that possibility, it would make sense for my lady-fro to be made out of steel wire. You know those metal sponge thingies for doing dishes? That's what I've got going on. Sex with me is BDSM by default.
So of course every single motherfucking steel hair on my motherfucking groin is growing in. All of them. They're like surfacing earth worms that changed their mind. Every time I think one of them is going to break through the surface, nope, down it goes again. It hurts. It burns. There isn't a word for what my crotch looks like right now. It's like I got vajazzled with tiny rubies and herpes. There is no reasonable chain of events that should lead to me typing the words "and my labia chafe like sandpaper when they rub together" but there we are anyway. I never knew that the only thing standing between me and weeping crotch sores and sandpaper butt crack was my decision not to shave, but lesson learned, friends. Lesson learned.
I must have done it wrong. All this research I did told me to use moisturizer and stuff to keep all this misery from happening, so I fucking did, and it didn't work, and now what? What do I do? Keep shaving? Maintain? Wait it out? How long does it take for pubes to grow back? I am seriously asking, because I don't know, and I need to know.
Everything is pain. I've got an ice pack in my pants. Every time I look at my crotch I feel like I should be on some sort of watch list.