One day when I was in graduate school, I was doing some routine hoo-ha maintenance when I suddenly had a wily thought:
Why not shave it all off?
I’m not going to pretend it was an erotic experience. There really isn’t anything sexy about clumps of pubic hair floating to the floor like burnt tumbleweeds. Not for me, anyway. The end result left me trying to determine whether I felt like a porn star or a nine-year-old girl.
Still, everything was cool for about five hours . . . until my hair started to grow back.
To be fair, I probably should have given the matter a bit more forethought. I’m a hairy woman, and my skin is very sensitive. I get razor burn of the armpit. As far as the bikini line goes, I have to shave with the hair growth. NEVER against it. Otherwise, it’s come on down to Ingrown Town.
Do you see where I’m going with this? After a few delicious hours of tee-hee, I’m playing pool with my friends and they have no idea my hoo-ha is bald . . . the itching began.
The initial sensation was not something that I would call “pain,” though there was some mild discomfort. I shifted around on my bar stool more than average, crossed and uncrossed my legs excessively, and generally tried to act cool even though alarm bells were going off in the back my head: Abort! Abort! Systems failure! Retreat before the situation becomes hostile!
The burning in my nether regions eventually escalated to a level of “Bordering on Hellfire,” but sadly for me, scratching my genitals in public is like an 11 on the “Don’t EVER Fucking Do That Shit in Public” scale. The more time passed, the more agony I suffered. I’m not sure if it was so much the raging itchiness that was killing me, or the fact that I was not in a position to scratch myself. Probably both. Plus, I didn’t have a car, so I had to wait until a friend could drive me home. Throughout the night, I took several thousand unnecessary bathroom breaks so I could go give myself a good scraping. I couldn’t wait to get home so I could dump an entire container of baby powder on my crotch inferno.
The worst was that I couldn’t even complain to anyone about it. What was I supposed to say? “Guess what? I shaved my vagina and now it’s burning like I just sat naked in a bath of chili peppers. You’ve totally done that too, right?” That probably wouldn’t have gone over too well with my new graduate student friends.
Finally the fire died down, but for several days afterwards I was left with scratchy man-beard stubble that would lodge itself in the fabric of my underwear and reverse-stab me like someone was poking at my labia with ten thousand needles. I’m sorry, okay?! I told my nether regions. I’ll NEVER, EVER shave you again. Promise. Now please stop torturing me.
My girl parts did eventually stop torturing me, and true to my word, I have not shaved them since. In fact, one of my prerequisites in choosing a husband was “must not require a bald hoo-ha.” When it comes to razors—aside from basic trimming—the vagina is now off-limits. For life.
(Of course I still trim. I don’t want to look like I’m hiding a guinea pig in my bathing suit bottoms, do I?)
This is a revised version of a piece originally published on Outmanned Mommy, reprinted with permission In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Edited featured image © depositphotos.com/vgeorgiev.