Is shaving really necessary? I mean, if I wear pants and sleeved shirts for eternity, can I be exempt from body shaving?
I was helluv excited the summer before I started junior high (that meant 7th grade in the olden days) and mom told me I could now wear mascara (blue!) and I could shave my legs. And I did shave my legs. I shaved my arms once, too, when I went to a party where my 8th grade ex-boyfriend was going to show up so I could totally make him jealous with my super model smooth skin. Then the hair started to grow back and I was afraid I was going to have man stubble on my arms forever.
But the last two times I can remember shaving? Sometime a year ago. And the day before Abalone was born in 2011. It was a scheduled c-section and I didn’t want to subject some poor nurse to my leg fur tickling her while she tried to shave my mons pubis in prep for birthing my second crotch fruit.
Stop yelling at me. I can hear you all the way in Washington. No. I don’t shave my bikini. My pubes are retro, bitches. This muff is vintage. (and now my co-workers know all about my hygiene habits because I was an idiot and gave them my blog address) (and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t reference my vagina area two posts in a row. I lie to myself a lot.)
But that’s not the beginning of this story (it never is. Carlos Mencia jokes that women have to know all the details. “Did you hit the snooze button?” (you had to be there to know why this is funny) This is why my dildo hustling parties took 5 hours. I had to give all the details. Took longer with the drunk ones. My gawd, they never shut up!). Anyway, the beginning is that I was in the bathroom, itching my armpit (why do these stories always start in the bathroom. I swear this was not the niche I was going for).
Side note: I’ve always had a hypothesis that body hair can only grow so long and then your genetic code shuts it off. If this were false, well I’d have 10 foot hair down there. Except for facial hair. That stuff has no limitations and is evil. WHY? Why does it prefer to grow out of moles and hide in the shadow of my second chin until I finally spot it and it’s 6 inches long (true story)?
So I felt a tickling in my armpit. And I’ll share that I have an explosion of white girl afro. The hair, on my head, is curly, thick, and there’s a lot of it. this means that there’s also a lot that ends up down my back and somehow lodged into the weave of my shirt, traveling to unexplained lands like my under boob, or an armpit. So, I figured this hair was from my head. And I yanked.
The fuck it wasn’t.
If I don’t have a pus filled hair bubble tomorrow, I’ll be surprised. And I’ll have to ask DH for help and he’ll either laugh at the irony from all those times I’ve harassed him to let me pop a zit on him (that.was.bugging.the.shit.out.of.me.). Or he’ll grab something freakish from the first aid kit and I’ll be missing some lymph nodes by the end of the week.
You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I’m aware that I’ve created my own nightmare.
But I faithfully swear that next week I will not talk about vaginas or vulvas.
Eh, who am I kidding. I can’t promise that.