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When I was 11, I started getting my first few pubes, and it was exciting. When I was 22, I started removing those hairs for a different type of excitement. But what began as a kinky kick gradually became just a regular grooming habit, decreasing in erotic punch with each passing year while holding ever-steady on my to-do list.
For 16 years I labored trimming, shaving and occasionally waxing my nether region out of desire and duty to stay current with my vague awareness of pubic-hair trends. It started with the demure Playboy style, which was an extreme reverse of a mullet, if you will. Then the Landing Strip, which in hindsight I equate with a long French manicure and clear high heels. I progressed to the All-Off, which too often mistakenly said, "Anything goes!" to anyone who got past third base.
Finding my personal pubic style was fun. I finally settled on a small, closely cropped triangle, high up front and nothing below or underneath.Â
But all that tugging and shearing left my vulva vulnerable. As an active woman — I frequently walk or bike for transportation — daily friction and pressure often irritated (razor burn), sometimes hurt (nicks and cuts, ingrown hairs) and actually harmed my tender skin more than once (post-wax bruising can happen). In fact, last year my not-yet-husband noticed what I would learn was a raised darkened patch on the low edge of my right labia.Â
"Does this hurt?" he asked, softly inspecting.
"No," I replied, not quite sure if it did or didn't. I also wasn't sure what exactly he was referring to or how big a deal it was or wasn't.
"Maybe it's from shaving," he mused. "Maybe you should stop."
That wasn't the first time I considered abandoning my topiary trimming, but it was the first time I realized the man who shared the fruit of my garden gave no hoot how manicured it was. I was the one who had set a precedent and put pressure upon myself to uphold it, while he was ultimately concerned about my well-being.
Together, we went to a nearby clinic and had the patch examined. No specific alarms were set off, but as a precaution, it was snipped off with the help of local anesthetic and closed with three stitches. The clinic sent my skin off to a lab for tests, and sent me on my way.Â
For three days it was uncomfortable to sit; for three weeks I had to walk carefully so the stitches wouldn't snag my undies. Grooming was too tricky, so I let it go and let it grow.
Noticing my bush gradually reclaiming its territory became like a second puberty — what I jokingly referred to as my "Puby Bloom."Â
Enduring the initial itchy, stubbly phase of regrowth wasn't easy. But much to my surprise, a fresh sexiness and womanly oomph washed over and through me. Soft, silken, mahogany hair cloaked my private portal, lending it a regal air of mystery. I likened it to wearing a finely tailored designer gown instead of a discount bodycon dress off the rack. And gosh, was it freeing to give up the razor save for a light bikini line clean-up once a week.
Concurrently, I stumbled upon an article all about pubic hair in a back issue of Redbook. In it, I learned that pubic follicles are actually tiny sexual organs, designed to work in concert with arousal and pleasure by feeling stimulation and emitting pheromones. Thus, each hair sprung forth is an extension of those organs as it transmits the signal of touch and retains pheromonal fragrance. The OB-GYNs consulted for the article divulged that to this wondrous process, shaving is the least disruptive, waxing is potentially more, while laser/electrolysis methods are likely to be murderous by literally shutting the follicles' instincts down. I felt smugly satisfied that most of my little pube roots were still all right, and gained newfound respect for the job they know to do.
The lab results confirmed the skin removed from my labia was a benign lesion, probably a result of friction (hello, bicycle seat). The stitches fell away from the underside of my wispily angora-sweatered box, and though in the past I would have immediately trimmed it back and shaved it bare, I truly didn't feel the desire.Â
Since then, I snipped up slightly in the warmest months, even sheared a little away for special occasions. But I'm really OK with being pubed again. In fact, I like it. Consider it a rebellious combo of honoring nature's way and bucking trend. Or succumbing to laziness.
But never more will I be plagued with a ridiculous self-doubting notion like, "Wow, the moment is right but, darn, I didn't shave today!"
Email arts@nashvillescene.com
