In the last gasp of warm Summer weather, I decided to take my kids to the beach. They could frolic, and I could… watch them from the comfort of my beach chair.
Seems idyllic, no? But the one thing tI didn’t count on was the presence of a giant afro growing between my legs.
Usually, my ladyland is neat, tidy, and fresh as a newly bathed baby. But, lately, I have… let myself go.
Chalk it up to the stress of divorce or general laziness, but the fact remains, there is an out of control jungle in my pants and your average machete won’t be able to get rid of it.
I tried to think out of the box. I didn’t want to shave because razor burn always looks like an STD, and as a single woman, that’s something I must avoid at all costs if I ever expect to get my kitty petted.
Oh, Nair. What would I do without you?
Now, I could wax, but, confession time, I have never waxed my nethers. And, frankly, the thought makes my clitoris invert. Yes, I have survived two vaginal births, but when the tape that was holding my IV in place was removed, I unleashed stream of invectives that never sprung to my lips while I was in labor. So, I really don’t think I am a good candidate for waxing.
What’s a girl to do? I certainly couldn’t scare the other beachgoers with what I was smuggling in my bikini bottoms. I decided to turn to an old friend my teen years; Nair.
You remember Nair. It smells like rancid roadkill, burns your eyes, lady bits and everything else it comes in contact with.
Sadly, it also didn’t work very well. You’d leave it on for an hour, and end up removing three pubes and some random cat hair that had been stuck to your thigh. But, I was between a rock and a hard place, so I figured I would give it one more shot.
I pulled the tube out of the box and it was exactly as I remembered it. Suddenly, I was a teenager in southern California buck naked in my bathroom, grooming an area no boy had seen and wouldn’t for many years.
Layering the cream onto my errant hairs, I realized how far I had let myself go. I mean, it was bad. My poon could have started in a 1976 porn film, and been given a Porncademy Award for its realistic portrayal of a disco dancing vagina. I decided to bring my bits into the present and caked on a little extra of the spectacularly putrid depilatory.
Since I had some time to kill, I poured myself a glass of wine and walked around my living waiting for the moment I could wipe away my sins with a washcloth. Giving it a couple extra minutes, and a spare glass of wine, I gave my labia a little rub down, not really expecting too much to come off.
Oh. Sweet. Mama. The hair came out in clumps, some of it singed beyond recognition. WHAT THE FUCK, NAIR? What did you do to the recipe? Add Hulk-like steroids? Am I going to be bald once the horror of your product is wiped away from my body?
When it was done, I couldn’t bear to look at myself. I knew it would be hideous. HIDEOUS.
I forced myself to look… and there it was…. a perfect Brazilian landing strip ready for some sexy Latin man to lick. I even managed to get my undercarriage perfectly smooth. I was so relieved, and shocked. I am a walking Pinterest fail, and somehow I had taken a catastrophe, ripped it from the clutches of failure, and made a beautiful little island of pubic hair.
I felt pretty gangster as I stripped off my shorts at the beach. I wanted to throw my vajayjay into the faces of the beach goers and say, “Do you see that? No! You don’t! Because there is nothing there! MUWAHAHA!”
Instead, I sat on my beach chair, watched my kids frolic in the water and silent praised Nair and my magical vagina.
Ponies and Martinis 