Landscaping the Nether Regions

Ever since I first had to deal with pubes, I always wanted to keep them under control. I think every woman owes it to herself and her significant (or even insignificant) other(s) to keep the shrubbery from going all disco and hanging down to her knees. With all the nastiness that goes on down there, topping it with a curly bouffant or a puffy ‘fro or even a feathered shag just magnifies any unpleasant poontang activity. Contrary to what the douche commercials used to advertise, it’s not always a fresh summer’s eve in a gardenia garden down there.

This vagina monologue has reminded me of a cute little anecdote borne out of a scrapbooking retreat for only the most mature of women. I thought about sharing this story for possible publication in Chicken Soup for the Scrapbooker’s Soul, but soon realized that (1) They rarely publish stories about pubic hair, and (2) I would give away one of scrapbooking’s most treasured secrets: When otherwise mild-mannered creative women get together, they can seriously talk some trash. About, inter alia, genitalia.

So my girlfriends and I went to this bed and breakfast for a weekend of drinking, er, I mean, crafting family heirlooms. Having arrived first, our group garnered the choice spot on the third floor. A private area with lots of natural light and better chairs. We had no idea that by staking our claim to that area we would engender animosity the likes of which we had not seen since Tom Selleck talked about guns on the Rosie O’Donnell show.

After we got settled, a group of small-town schoolteachers arrived. They were, for the most part, a good 10 to 20 years older than our group. A couple of them clambered up the stairs in hopes of snagging the best room in the house. The look of disappointment on their wrinkled and winded faces portended the crass disrespect we would soon fall victim to. Their clan was stuck on the main floor with poor lighting and rickety chairs. “Snooze you lose, bitches!” We cheered as we high-fived each other.

The main floor housed the common area where we would often be forced to interact with these hags if we needed to use a certain paper cutter or shop for the perfect accent piece for our likely-to-be-wine-stained books of family treasures. On one particular occasion, my friend Kathy was there minding her own business cutting some no doubt lovely textured card stock. I descended the stairs to get something and overheard one of the bitches tell the others, “No not this bleached blonde, one of the others.” Kathy overheard this and thought, “Oh noooo she did-n’t. This lady has no idea who she is dealing with.” I turned to the perpetrator and asked, “Can I help you?” She lowered her glasses down her nose to get a better look at me and said, “Tell me somethin’ hon, when you bleach your hair, do you do a little batch for the snatch?” I did not hesitate to respond, “Of course. With all the videos and photo shoots I do, I need my snatch to match. You should have noticed last night when you were doing my bikini wax. Is there anything I can get y’all from upstairs, like some manners?” The ringleader’s gal pals laughed as she said, “I like her.”

So that’s my near-legendary Batch for the Snatch scrapbooking story. It’s also a perfect example of how I like to win friends and influence new admirers. Sometimes a good insult is pure tension-relieving gold.

Anyway, speaking of bikini waxes, I think a good genital-waxing should replace waterboarding as the military’s controversial torture of choice. Of course, being the one forced to smear hot wax on some terrorist’s tangled greasy infested man mound would no doubt be a new cause for any average soldier’s PTSD. Torturer’s mental trauma be damned. Wax those fuckers, I say.

A few years ago, I decided that shaving the nether regions was taking too much valuable time from my otherwise busy and generally productive day. I had always had my eyebrows waxed with little to no pain, so I thought I could handle putting my dainty vulva through the same process. I made an appointment with a stocky German woman a friend had recommended. She asked me what kind of wax job I wanted. Since “Brazilian” was the only kind I had heard of, that’s what I made the mistake of asking for. She guided me into the procedure chamber that was cleverly disguised as a peaceful spa enclave with a massage table in it. I assumed she would leave me alone to undress, but no. She proceeded to take a seat in the rattan chair in the corner and wait for me to get naked. I felt not a little awkward disrobing as Helga watched in bored exasperation. She then ordered me up on the table. I felt like I was starring in a fetish film. (Not that I have ever seen any, mind you. Really.) Before I knew it, my lady parts were being bathed in hot wax. My pubes were then ripped from my crotch with all the grace of a rugby scrum. Every last pube. Every single hint of a pube. Even future pubes were aborted. I knew that my stuff would never be the same and that naked I would look like an overgown six-year-old for at least a month.

I decided to try to keep the Brazilian a secret at least until the redness subsided. Father’s Day was coming up so I thought if I were stealthy enough, I could surprise my husband with it as a gift in case I forgot to get him a card. The day after the bush brutality, I went with the family to look at land. We had been planning to buy a lot in the country and build a house on it, so our weekends had been taken over with nature walks on for-sale properties all over the county. My husband searched for a good homesite area while our kids scouted the best treehouse trees. As my poor fortune would have it, I found myself needing to pee so bad I was crying yellow tears. With my family scattered across three acres, I saw fit to squat behind a bush (no pun intended) to relieve a little pressure. Of course, as soon as I exposed myself in broad daylight, my husband’s naked-wife-radar started chirping its alert siren that only he can hear. Sort of like a dog whistle for deprived men. As I broke the seal on my bladder and wondered if I could get it completely emptied in one sitting, there he stood. I did not realize how flexible he was until that day. He folded himself in half at the hips and craned his head unnaturally to see what was left of my hoo-ha. “Are you . . . BALD?!” he asked. From my weak squat, I looked up guiltily and muttered, “This isn’t exactly the big reveal I had in mind.” Before I could pull up my shorts, he had the kids buckled into the truck and ready to go home. As if the physical pain wasn’t bad enough, now I had mental anguish to deal with as well.

And it only got worse. A few days later, my daughter (who was probably five years old at the time) wandered into the bathroom as I bathed in our open shower. Before I could turn away, she yelled, “Mama! What happened? Your Tinkerbell looks just like mine!” Never again, I thought. Bring back the bush, I begged. A few weeks later, I found myself in be-careful-what-you-wish-for mode. The only thing as uncomfortable as the hairs being ripped out was the experience of the timid and traumatized hairs attempting to re-emerge. For the first time, I think I may have had some understanding of jock itch. Maybe I’m too sensitive down there, but that waxing and all the trouble it brought was more painful than childbirth. I would only do it again with an epidural.

One might think that the Brazilian experience would make me swear off removal of unsightly hair, but one would be mistaken. After the bravest pubes grew back, I was ready to try a new deforestation measure. That’s when I decided to see what laser could do for my nether regions. I made an appointment at the local laser hair removal “salon.” These places are like a hybrid hair studio/doctor’s office. Like a medical clinic with aromatherapy. A spa with needles. I signed in and filled out all this paperwork and these medical history questionnaires as if I were preparing to donate a kidney. Then as I waited for my name to be called, I perused a three-ring binder of drawings meant to depict their various service offerings. Of course, I could have had my armpits or upper lip done, but shaving my pits has never been much of a burden, and I don’t have a mustache yet. I considered having my legs done, but thought I would use my beaver as guinea pig first. In the tastefully-titled “Bikini Area” section of the menu book, there were diagrams of assorted shapes one might have their hedges trimmed into. There was, for example, the Wedge, the Mini-Wedge, the Heart, the Landing Strip, the Hitler, the Soul Patch, the Cabbage Patch, the Groucho, the Fu Manchu, the Cornrows, the Dreadlocks, the Smiley Face, the “Your Boyfriend Was Here,” and of course “Slippery When Wet.” Words cost extra, obviously. I decided to go with the tasteful yet trendy Landing Strip for my maiden voyage.

My name was called and I nervously approached the perky young assistant who would guide me to a “treatment room” where I would wait for an “aesthetician” to “prep” me. I was instructed to undress from the waist down and cover up with a giant paper cocktail napkin. I sat on the cold vinyl table and tried to decide if I had time to run to the restroom after I had told the guide girl that I didn’t need to go. My mind raced with philosophical thoughts such as: Why am I here? Why do we want to remove a naturally-occurring phenomenon? Why is genital hair a naturally-occurring phenomenon? Is it really a phenomenon or was it one of God’s little jokes? He probably thought, I’ll make these parts really ugly and then cover them up with . . . HAIR! Mmmwahahahahahaaaa! How much am I paying for this? Why didn’t I use the Internet coupon? Now it’s really too late for me to find the restroom. . . .

My philosophy session was interrupted by a rattle at the door. In barged a woman in a white lab coat and another in festive scrubs. I thought, Wow, this is more serious than I thought. Then Lab Coat introduced Festive Scrubs as a student/tech and would I mind if she “observed”? What was I supposed to say? “Sorry, Festive Scrubs, I want to be alone with Lab Coat if you know what I mean.” Having been born without a modesty chip, and having had my ability to feign modesty stripped of me completely after giving birth in a military teaching hospital to an audience the size of a community college, I said, “No problem.”

Lab Coat then had me recline on the table as she pulled what looked to be a purple Sharpie from her pocket. She glanced at my chart’s “Landing Strip” choice and verified that it was indeed my intention to have that shape lasered onto my vulnerable vulva. She took the Sharpie and marked the outer boundaries of the areas to be “treated.” I had no idea that “Bikini Area” encompassed such a vast range of real estate. From the navel to the upper and inner thighs, I was a marked woman. She then instructed Festive Scrubs to “prep” me. “Prepping,” it turns out, is a rough dry shave with a cheap disposable razor. As Festive Scrubs began to insult what was left of my dignity, Lab Coat said, “Wait a minute, her hair is pretty light. I need to see if we should increase the settings.” I was all like, “Excuse me?” Lab Coat took off to get a supervisor. In the meantime, Festive Scrubs explained that the laser zeroes in on the pigment, so the darker the hair, the more effective the laser will be. Great, I thought. Now they’ll have to crank up the zapper so it can see my unwanted hair. I could hear God cackling at me as he rolled his big eyes: “This is what you get for messing with nature, you doofus!” Just as God was about to mock me again, in walked Lab Coat with her supervisor, Badge Ribbon. Badge Ribbon’s nametag sported a red flag with gold lettering that proclaimed her to be an “Aesthetician Supervisor.” As I reclined with a purple perimeter drawn on my abdomen and thighs, half-shaved, Badge Ribbon bent over to get a closer look at my pube pigment. She shook her head at Lab Coat and Festive Scrubs, “This is a tough one. She has some light hair. We should probably set it pretty high, but I want to confirm the numbers. I’ll be right back.” At that, Badge Ribbon left me alone with Lab Coat and Festive Scrubs. We made small talk about the weather and our children while we waited awkwardly for Badge Ribbon to return. After ten minutes that seemed more like an hour and a half, here comes Badge Ribbon with another supervisor. Mind you, my bladder was about to burst at that point. This other supervisor, Sensible Shoes, had to take a look. I never actually saw her shoes as my being splayed out on the table left me no good footwear vantage point, but she looked like the type that would wear sensible shoes. You know, a husky woman with no make-up who might have been described as “handsome” back in the pioneer days. She just looked like a gal who would never waste her time with cute shoes. So anyway, Sensible Shoes examined my beav and concurred with Badge Ribbon. But since Festive Scrubs and Lab Coat were in there too, Sensible Shoes went the extra mile and used me as a teaching opportunity. She manhandled my muff as she showed the three poon gazers what she was talking about. “See,” she offered, “This is what we call an extra light brown. Not as dark as we usually see. The lighter the hair, the harder the machine has to work. Let’s use the highest setting for best results. It may be a little more painful, but we have no choice.” Sensible Shoes gave my pubic bone a reassuring pat as she bid farewell to the party. Badge Ribbon made sure that Lab Coat knew what to do, then took her leave as well. Lab Coat probably enjoyed a bathroom break while Festive Scrubs finished shaving me clean.

After the shave and before the procedure, I finally had a chance to relieve myself. I passed another client in the hall as I scampered barefoot toward the ladies’ room wrapped in the napkin skirt. She must have seen the angst on my face. She said, “The first time is always the worst. You’ll get used to it.” Get used to it? I thought. Was this some sort of cult? As I sat on the toilet and relaxed for a minute, I wished I was anywhere but there. I hadn’t even been lasered yet and I was already discouraged. My pubes were not the right color; I was marked with a purple Sharpie; and my nether region was shaved bald. I was wearing a paper sarong. My purse and keys were in another room. There was no turning back. Suck it up, I told myself. Maybe the worst is over.

I returned to the prep room where Festive (we were on a first-name basis by now) led me to the procedure area. I was placed in something not unlike a dentist’s chair. Oh how I wish I was just getting a root canal with no novocaine, I thought. Lab Coat arrived shortly, clearly anxious to try the machine on its highest setting. We donned the little goggles to protect our eyes from any errant laser beams. I felt like I was in some sort of futuristic porn film. Like Festive was going to put on some mood music and pour me a glass of Champagne before taking off her scrubs to reveal six-inch stilettos and a black leather bustier. Lab Coat would of course tear her eponymous starched white jacket off to show us that she was really an android nymphomaniac with robot laser-guided nipples. These are the kinds of thoughts that plagued me as I was about to be violated. Lab Coat gelled me up and explained that I would feel a tiny sting followed by puffs of cold air to numb the area. She turned on the machine that clattered as loud as a riding lawnmower. (Which ironically, is kind of what it was doing.) Festive watched intently through goggled eyes and, much to my relief, never made a move on me. The pain was soul-scraping, but still not as bad as the wax job that had scarred my psyche a few months earlier. I thought for sure she was about to wrap it up when she announced, “Now I just need to finish your labia.” “Labia?!” I thought. Did she really have to use such a technical term while performing such a barbaric act? It was like kicking a guy in the balls with a steel-toed boot while gently saying, “I’m almost finished sculpting your testes.” So incongruous. Then again, the whole experience was an out-of-body affair.

Festive helped wipe me up as I took the goggles off to see Lab Coat’s handiwork. I beheld the aforementioned Landing Strip surrounded by reddened skin and wondered why I paid so much for the pleasure. Lab Coat handed me an ice pack and explained that the hair might grow back sooner because of the nature of it and that I may need to come back more often for more treatments. I thanked her for her patience with my recalcitrant and inappropriately-colored hair. Sure enough, before long, the fearless fluff began to reappear. Are you kidding me? I asked my defiant crotch. Seriously? But I paid a lot of money and went through pure hell for this. Even a full-body epidural could not have numbed the pain.

So I traded laser for razor and never looked back. But if I ever decide to brave the laser, at least now I know to do a dark little batch for the snatch first.