At some point I realized that most of the women in New York City (at least, those women under a certain age, making a certain amount of money, who looked better than me) had no pubic hair.
I’m not sure how I figured this out. It must have been that strange osmosis which occurs after overhearing conversations, flipping through a magazine, or reading a blog.
Suddenly my pubic hair became one of those things in my life that needed work. It was outdated and unkempt. I had just gone through (one of) the breakup(s) with my long, long-term boyfriend; I was worried about my marketability and street value. Actually, I was panicked that I would never find someone to love me, ever again. That pubic hair could be the deal-breaker, I thought, in the midst of my panic. Some guy would take a look at my muff and think, ewwwww, I’m outta here.
There were other reasons. I needed a change, a big change, and I wasn’t ready to shave my head. There was the transformative ritual aspect of removing hair from myself. And then there was the appeal of the neatness and minimalism in going bald.
There were several techniques for pubic hair removal: shaving, electrolysis, waxing, and laser. The laser and electrolysis were ridiculously expensive and seemed just too painful. Shaving would require daily maintenance and produce weird, coarse stubble. Waxing seemed to be my only option.
I went to a salon that had been written up specifically for its “painless, hygienic, and caring” approach to waxing. I was appalled at the price listed for a Brazilian bikini wax, but there was no turning back, and I had my credit card with me. That card has gotten me into trouble more than a few times.
The sweet, ladylike Russian woman who took me into the white, hospital-like room was very reassuring. It won’t hurt that much, she said in soothing tones while New Age music played. She gave me a pair of disposable panties and a gown to put on (just like in the hospital—I was starting to panic again) and left the room to allow me to remove my clothes in privacy and modesty.
She came back in and started. I couldn’t see too much of what was happening, because I was flat on my back for the first part, had at least one and sometimes two legs over my head for the second part, and was positioned doggy-style for the third part. The disposable panties were basically immediately pushed to the side and stayed there. I realized that no adult woman had ever seen my really private parts at all, let alone at that angle and close range. Were they clean? Did they smell funny? But I stopped being embarrassed pretty quickly. Waxing that sensitive area hurt like hell. The feminine Russian woman had the hands of a Swedish masseuse. She said a couple of times, “Very strong, tough hair!” as the hot wax went on, a strip of cloth was put over it, and the cloth was RIPPED off. Over and over. In every little crack.
Finally the few remaining cowering, trembling hairs that had survived the massacre were plucked by hand, I was covered in sweat. I felt like I had survived some terrible initiation ceremony.
And I was a new woman. Removing my pubic hair made me feel as if I had vaulted out of a rut, some deep rut in my life that had been there for a long, long time. If I could get out of this rut, I reasoned, I could get out of any rut. I felt clean, free, young (almost like a prepubescent virgin—but I didn’t really want to dwell on that aspect of the result). I was newly open and exposed, in a very private way. I was hairless. I was hooked.
