I want to state something, for the record, and state it loudly and proudly. No longer should I slither through the shadows, feeling naked and bare. No longer will I cross my legs in shame.
I like having pubic hair, y’all.
Maybe it was living in LA that gave me the distaste for it — because I’m convinced that no one in LA has pubic hair — but I’m really not feeling the hairless cooch. I know it’s all clean and fuck-ready, but I’ve never quite understand why someone would want to look like a character from the first half of a Judy Blume novel. Sure, I’ve shaved it all once or twice. And I looked like a 10-year-old. Baby face, small tits, no pubes. No good. I felt like there were a handful of fat, greasy dudes in clown suits trolling the internet who would love the look I had going on.
Plus — and I know I’m not the only one in the world who’s experienced this — pubes on the labia provide a sort of Hoover Dam, if you will, for the stream. You know what I mean? Look, when peeing while sitting is your thing, public restrooms can be a little unsavory. That’s why every female in civilization has perfected the toilet hover. It’s a magical thing, really. The pee goes where it needs to go and no part of your body comes in contact with all of that ickyness. (And we encounter a lot of it. Girls are heavenly creatures and all, but clearly they leave their halos at the bathroom door.) But conditions have to be just so to achieve a successful hover. And if you don’t have a little bit of a barrier, things will go awry. You’ll pee down your leg is what I’m saying. And then you have to be all Ninja reflexive to catch it with the toilet paper before it hits your pants.
I’m not saying I’m into complete nature or anything like that. Perish the thought of hairy assholes. This isn’t 1906.
And there something to be said for unobstruction. One should be able to find what they’re looking for. And I’m not sure if even I could find it were I sporting that bush. A little is nice, though. I give you exhibit B:
Sasha Grey up there is proof positive that you can cancel your brazilian and still hold some dignity. I think she looks beautiful and I’ll take this look over the vertical Hitler pussy moustache any day.
But here’s the conundrum: I’m not having sex for a living. (Are you just a teensy bit relieved, family, to hear me say it?) I’m taking my clothes off. And my two naked jobs conflict. While I do not enjoy a bunch of college freshman getting a good, long, artful look at my bare labia, likewise do I not want an audience to see a lumberjack peeking out of my g-string. What to do, what to do? I can’t wear big girl panties on stage. Enough performers do that already. (Stop it, by the way.) And I’ve long since grown tired of getting on my hands and needs in front of a Russian lady with a bowl of hot wax.
Maybe I’ll treat my pubes like Joan Crawford treated her eyebrows. I’ll get rid of all of it, then paint it on. Or I could make myself a merkin, a little snatch toupee, to wear at work. It would give me a ton of creative freedom. I’ve always wanted to be a redhead.
Boom. Problem solved.