Trimming the Hedge
This post is not for the squeamish. This is one of those posts where the weird things that circle around in my brain actually make their way to paper.
You see, I’ve been looking at a lot of pole dancers and I’ve been noticing things. I’ve been noticing that the really, really good pole dancers all perform in tiny little thongs. Little, little thongs. And I notice that they are as smooth as a Barbie doll behind those thongs, with nary a wisp escaping.
Nary a Wisp
That’s right, class, today’s topic is that most notorious of personal grooming escapades: the coiffing of the pube.
Full disclosure: You can see from my pole dance shorts page that I think a girl’s bikini wax situation is private. There is a reason for this: I hate having to deal with this particular brand of maintenance. And I feel absolutely sure that, if I’m just working out, I shouldn’t have to.
But I can see how, if I ever wanted to compete or dance at an event, I would probably want to give a little more thought to the issue.
Which I have done from time to time. After all, I love lingerie (I used to design lingerie), and I love burlesque. These are all sexy things that require sexy outfits, and a little weed-whacking in these years of the fashionable landing-strip occasionally seems reasonable.
The Implements of Torture
Oh, I’ve tried things. Various things. Different things.
Things that don’t work.
Things like shaving. I’ve tried brand new razors, moisturizing before, moisturizing after. I’ve tried numbing agents and a layer of antiperspirant (tip from the iridescent Michelle L’Amour and her lovely blog). I’ve tried rubbing alcohol and going with the grain. None of it works. All of it leaves red bumps. All of it causes itching.
The worst of which is not directly afterwards. No, that comes after you’ve put on your undies and walked around a bit and the elastic starts irritating your sensitive, newly kempt skin.
I think the only way shaving could ever work is if you spent the following twelve hours lying stark naked on your back with your legs in a wide V. But whenever I try to do that, Dennis gets overheated and I never manage to maintain that frictionless state long enough to let my bits recover.
Then there are depilatory creams. I tried this. Once. Well, almost once. Okay, I just bought the cream and never used it. How could I? I used to use that stuff on my upper lip and can still remember the burning. Why did I, even for one second, think I would ever want to risk putting that stuff near my favorite girlie bits?
Which left only one thing – the most dreaded, most feared, most unlikely that I would ever be able to do: waxing.
I’ve tried waxing strips at home, just on the outskirts of my … ahem … village. But I was too much of a wuss to do anything dramatic. And I am not possessed of the inner strength needed to go to some stranger in a salon, spread my legs wide as a drunken invite to a ship full of sailors, and let ‘er rip. Literally. I’m sorry, I can’t do it. I just can’t. It flips me out every time I think of it – and it’s not the pain. (Well, yes, okay, it’s a lot to do with the pain.) It’s just having some stranger covered with wax going in for the full monty like that. I can’t handle it.
Plus, it’s just so aggressive. I mean, these are tender areas. They should not be subjected to a massive onslaught of deforestation.
Besides, you have to wait for too much re-growth before you can go back. And is there anything more unpleasant there than stubble?
Brace For It …
Oh, yes. There is.
Yes, you heard me. I went there.
I’m old, people. Deal with it. (I’m trying to.) Thanks to that one, blessed episode in Sex and the City, I can admit to this.
Still, it’s just so freakish and bizarre. Why, why, why does this have to happen? Isn’t it enough that my eyes are crinkling up and my dark brown head of hair keeps coming in silver?
There’s only one reasoned response – scissors. I figure, if I just keep removing the offending bits, they’ll learn their lesson and not return.
Not that that works, but it gets me through.
I don’t like to live in denial, but, occasionally, it makes a splendid home.
Which is all my way of saying, what do you use? And, while we’re at it, what are your pube-coiffing horror stories?