Mom, if you are reading this post, STOP right here.
Dad, turn back now.
Brother, this is not for your eyes.
For those of you that are not family, read on. But be warned - it's going to personal. It's going to get real.
After all, this is important stuff.
It is important for women to have community where we can talk about things. Most of all about our bodies, without shame or judgement.
If you are in still in the dark, today I am writing about our body part that spends most of the time in the dark.
Vajayjays, gardens, addresses, coochies, boxes, bushes, beavers.
Particularly, my experiences of the good, bad, and the ugly side of grooming.
At 11 years old, I had gone through ALL of puberty. My garden had grown in dense, dark, and early. I was shocked and embarrassed one day to find that my yellow girls swimsuit was see-through now that there was hair down there. Worse yet, I had just worn that swimsuit to the class beach field trip. Who had noticed? Who had seen? The boys? The girls? The teachers? I didn’t know who was worse…Ugh! As if puberty and boobs and wearing a bra wasn’t bad enough, now EVERYONE knew I had grown hair... down there!
From then on it was my boring black suit only.
As I grew older, my bush became bigger and bolder and more aggressive.
It wanted to take over the yard and grow out of the fence of my panties and boring black swimsuit. Out came the weed wacker to tame back the sides of the garden. Every now and then I would resort to the clippers and lob the top off all that lush foliage.
My garden wasn’t pretty but it was functional.
I have had my beaver bleached.
Unlike most people that have this done, my bleached beaver was 100% unintentional.
How can this happen, you ask?
Chlorine. Pure and simple.
There was a summer, many moons ago, that I worked as a lifeguard and a swim instructor.
I showed up to work about 9:00 or 10:00, went home at 7:00 or 8:00 and spent all day soaking in the sun...and the chlorine.
By July, the hair at the nape of my neck was blond, my arm and leg hair had disintegrated and my pubes were platinum.
I’m still not sure what the long term effects of all those pool chemicals might be. I guess I’m the guinea pig. I’ll keep you posted.
One day B.C. (Before Children), I was performing my routine yard maintenance. On a whim, I decided it was time to start fresh. So out came the mower. Thank gawd I had nowhere to be, because, boy howdy, there was a lot of underbrush - or should I say underbush?
It was a nice surprise for my husband. And his reaction was a nice surprise for me. But neither of us were happy for long. In about a day and a half I realized my mistake. It started to grow back. The hairs that grew in made my pussy a porcupine.
And like the old joke says:
How do porcupines mate?
Some evil little hairs decided to become ingrown. So now I was a pimpled and pockmarked porcupine pussy.
And my address was itchy, an itch that I just couldn’t scratch. Especially not when teaching.
Parenthood makes us all do crazy things. Even when it comes to our nether-regions.
Eight months pregnant with my first baby, I was determined to have all the information. “Tell me everything I need to know” was my constant convo starter.
One of my girlfriends advised me…
“Well, after the birth, it can get pretty messy, sore and hard to clean down there so the less hair the better.”
Right. Got it. I’m on it.
I started calling aestheticians to see who would take it all off.
Apparently, they were worried about sending me into labor, or something.
I tried to take care of it myself with a small pair of sewing scissors, but my first born was a big baby and so my access to the area was somewhat limited.
I recruited the only other person who was allowed to see my box.
On a spring Sunday evening, my very reluctant, very scared husband squeezed his large fingers through the holes of my very small (get your mind out of the gutter) sewing scissors and attempted to trim things up a bit.
When it came to the actual birth, did it help?
Did it make anything easier, in the after math of that vaginal explosion?
No and No.
When you try and push a super tanker through a train tunnel, the bunting flags hanging around the entrance to said tunnel are the least of your worries. Everybody is worried about rebuilding the stonework and a lot less concerned with what happened to the festive decor.
I did not trim things up for baby number two.
So for 10 years I let my bush grow free. My garden grew fallow.
I heard rumors, legends, of those brave warrior women who had attempted something called “The Brazilian.” Way to too much Amazon Woman for me, thank you very much.
One day one of by besties called.
Apparently she had taken the plunge and joined the Amazons.
“Come, meet my gal. She is amazing” She advocated.
Why would I wax? Doesn’t it hurt like the dickens?
Why would I wax? I had shaved that once and the recovery was miserable.
Why would I wax? I didn’t want to look like a little girl? And how sick is the guy that wants a little girl?
Sure I had considered it when I was pregnant, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was not desperate anymore.
She mentioned it several times and I listened patiently and asked polite questions, but it was still a big fat “Hell, no.”
Ok, I’ll admit, I was curios, but “Hell, no.”
But on a recent visit to her city, she suggested a visit to the new natural beauty shop.
‘Lovely,’ I thought.
The sweet lady behind the counter introduced herself as my friend’s aesthetician.
Something stirred in my brain.
“The one I have been telling you about” my friend clarified.
Something in my brain clicked into place.
I was face to face with The Waxer. The Queen of the Amazons. This woman deserved the deepest respect.
I am easily Star Struck. I have Fame Shame. I get nervous and tongue tied around even local celebrities. After all, these are leaders of men and women. I am just a mere mortal. Hail to you, oh great ones!
“Uh, hi. I have heard alot of about you and, uh, your, uh services”. I heard myself say as my cheeks flushed.
“Yes! I am so excited about my new shop!” She said, looking lovingly around her new storefront.
“Ya. Um. My friend has been telling me great things,” I said through an unnatural grin.
“Let me know if I can ever make you an appointment.” She offered with an angelic smile.
“How about Now?” I heard myself say.
Who said that?
“Sure, come on back.” She gestured towards a curtain behind her.
What did I just do?
“Are you sure? Right now? Um, are you sure?” I mumbled, “Well, we were going swimming later. I’m sure you can’t go swimming after.”
Please say no, please say no, please say no, I thought desperately.
“Oh. You totally can.” She replied with a smile.
“I don’t want to make my friend wait.” I said looking at my friend with anxious eyes.
“No. You’re fine”, she assured me. “It really doesn’t take long.”
“Well great.” I said
As I followed the leader behind a green velvet curtain of Amazon initiation, I shot my friend a wide eyed look. I tried to convey a look that said ‘stop me now’ but she just smiled and nodded.
The Amazon Priestess busied herself with the ceremonial preparation.
Beads of blue wax were poured into a heating urn.
She adorned a costume of a black apron and gloves.
I stood awkwardly by the door, awaiting my fate.
She beckoned me over to the altar, I mean, table.
I lay Panties down, skirt hiked, tits up on the table.
On went the hot wax, off went the hair.
And what was it like, you ask?
A pain like no other. Sharp as a knife.
But unlike any cut, once it was done, it was done. No residual ache or soreness.
She worked with lightning speed. The sides, the outside, the inside.
Oh, yes, the inside.
She started at the top, and worked her way to the bottom.
Oh, yes, the bottom.
Ass up, head down, in the crack. Yow!
And before I knew it, she was done.
I felt a little like one of those plucked birds from cartoons, the ones that are bumpy and pink and have lost all their feathers in a high wind.
But I had done it. I had braved “The Brazilian.” I had survived the tribal initiation.
I left her shop that day, my head held high, feeling more empowered and feminine that ever before.
Why would I wax? Because the pain is fleeting and the pleasure of a smooth spot is AH-mazing.
Why would I wax? Because recovery was easy and painless. Thanks to the right cleanser and some exfoliating gloves, there were no ingrown hairs! Plus, only ½ the hairs grew back and the ones that did were light and fine.
Why would I wax? Not to look like a little girl, but to feel like a woman.
If all this seems mundane, and you have already taken your trip to Brazil, and you are looking for the next vagina adventure, maybe give Vajazzling a try. Think Vajayjays + Beadazzling.
Thankfully they do not use one of those kits from the 80's that we all wanted for our light-wash denim jackets and skin tight jeans with zippers and bows at the ankle.
BTW, back in the day, before any of this grooming stuff was on my radar, my stone-washed miniskirt looked great with my new kids on the block T-shirt, pink flats and matching T-shirt tie.
But back to the subject at hand...From what I understand, the Vagazeling is more of a glue-it-on situation.
I am still fascinated by The Red Chair, a boutique salon I passed once upon a time in Seattle.
A salon just for your cooch.
But then, I said that about the Brazilian, too.
Really, I guess you never know.
So instead I will say “Maybe someday…”
So whether you let it all grow wild, cover it up with the black swimsuit, keep it from growing out of the flower bed with some shaping, bleach it, trim it, shave it, wax it, or decorate it, you own your journey because you own your vagina.