Vagina havingness is a condition that affects around half of the world’s population. It is a tricky predicament in that vaginas and their auxiliary parts are simultaneously delicate and tyrannical. Caring for that whole system is sort of like caring for a terrarium or a saltwater fish tank in that the meticulous attention required to keep them in working order can be laborious and unforgiving.
Wait. Did I just mention vaginas and fish in the same sentence? And compare female reproductive organs to an ecosystem grown in a jar? Although we have not yet talked about poop in depth as I promised in my first post we eventually weird, things are clearly getting ultra weird around here. In my defense, the word “weird” is in the name of the blog title. So I don’t think I can be saddled with too much blame here.
What I’m driving at is that having a vagina can be a real chore. Because, as I mentioned, you cannot have simply a vagina. With it comes a host of ancillary parts and conditions like the ovaries and the uterus and the Red Fury*. So you’ve got this delicate system that is all like:
YOU BETTER WASH ME AND DON ME WITH FRESH UNDERGARMNETS OR I’MA GIVE YOU A YEAST INFECTION!
But it’s also like:
LULZ! Way to use harsh soap in the tub and non hypoallergenic laundry soap on your unmentionables. Enjoy your urinary tract infection, n00b!
We’re pressured to wear sexy underwear because there is obviously no way for a woman to be attractive without donning a translucent piece of synthetic silk attached to a confusing series of strings, one of which rides unhappily between her butt cheeks. We should all be wearing cotton underwear. And it should probably have elastic that is triple wrapped in more cotton because bikini lines are strange territory that get all angry and chaffed when confronted with tight fabric and heat and friction. And because most of us lack the mostly anatomically incorrect thigh gap, friction is an ever-present threat. The Vaginal Territory is fraught with danger, and a vagina-haver must be hyper-vigilant to avoid inflaming the natives of the crotch region.
Having a vagina is akin to having an unpredictable alcoholic residing in your pants. It’s a belligerent inebriate who could snap and lose its shit at any moment, and then suddenly burst into tears for no real reason, apologizing for being such an asshole, but then swatting your hand away when you try to offer sympathy, and then snatching away from you the room-temperature watered down vodka tonic in front of it and downing the drink just to prove a point… while glaring at you. And then bursting into tears again before passing out.
And the hair. Sweet God in Heaven, the hair on that thing. Some would say that as a feminist, I am not supposed to care about the hair. I am supposed to embrace my natural lady parts and let that bush grow wildly and happily however it wants. As a feminist, I should proudly wear my pubic hair au naturale, and I should encourage other girls and women to do the same because we are supposed to love our bodies the way they are.
Normally, I would be totally on board with this. I would be at the front of the picket line, holding a
clever mediocre sign like, BEAR THAT BUSH, DON’T BARE THAT BUSH! trying to convince the whole world that it’s a-okay for ladies to toss their razors and embrace what God gave them.
Here’s the thing. I do believe that women should be gleefully sport a full-on forest if that’s how they prefer it. We should be able to rock our crotches however we see fit. That’s the nuance of feminism that is often lost on folks. It’s not just about being a hairy, contemptuous activist shouting in the face of the patriarchy. I mean, it is about that, but the point isn’t merely that women should always and unequivocally do the very opposite of whatever has been traditionally imposed upon and expected of us. Instead, the point is that we should have a choice to do whatever the hell we want with our own bodies and our own lives and we should not be castigated or ostracized or abused or condemned or killed or any combination thereof for having and exercising such choice.
But the thing about me personally and pubic hair? OH, HAI, SENSORY DISORDER. Shoving a crotch full of pubes into my underpants for the ten to twelve hours a day that I am typically forced to wear clothes feels to me like a form of torture. You know how if you wear your hair in a ponytail too long, or you have on a hat all day, it makes your scalp tender and grouchy? It’s kinda like that. Except on my mons pubis and my labia majora. Nobody wants hat head on their mons pubis and their labia majora. Nobody.
So for years I have engaged in all sorts of hair removal routines and techniques, ranging from a run-of-the-mill razor and soap situation to expensive salon trips to waxing that shit myself**. Recently I decided to break down and give laser hair removal a try, and hoo-boy do I have a story for you all.
**Stories to come about this situation the few times I’ve been stupid enough to give it a go. It’ll save me money! I said. No big deal, it’ll be easy! I said. There were mirrors and tweezers and tears and wine. And wax stuck on everything. Plus very hostile skin.