When I was 18 and headed off to a liberal arts college outside the confines of sunny California, my father gave me a present. It was elegantly wrapped, a slim silver box with a fancy pink bow. Inside was a Bic razor, also pink, and a note that read, “Don’t let the hairy legged feminists get you down.”
In Dad’s defense, he has always been a champion of equal rights. I think raising a daughter as a single father opened his eyes to the inequities of everyday life.
But I digress.
Fast forward to present day–Lover has been sick for two weeks now. Realizing that my pants and panties were (sadly) going to stay on, I decided that I would give myself a break from shaving.
Well, really, I was whooping it up, thinking, “No-shave vacation! Yay me!”
Although I’ve always kept my clam neat and trimmed, I’ve gone all the way bare since Lover and I have been tangling between the sheets. I like the smooth, clean look of it myself, and I know he does, too.
That is, until this temporary hiatus from All the Fun Things.
At first my bush grew back just a little itchy, poking through my underwear like a baby porcupine.”That’s OK,” I thought, fidgeting and feeling like a prickly pear. “This is only a little discomfort.”
Meanwhile my poor pussy looked more and more like a Mad Max chia pet as the week continued.
Three days later, the itchiness had increased to where I could barely be trusted not to scratch violently like a baboon in public. “It just takes a few days to feel normal again,” I told myself while trying not to shove my hands down the front of my pants like an old pervert watching girls at the park. “This is only temporary, right?”
After day five, I ran out of patience and slathered Nair everywhere.
So here I sit, naked and bare and blissfully happy once again.
You just gotta find what works for you, and stick with it!