When I came of age in the late Seventies, a Brazilian was someone who was born in Brazil. A landing strip? That’s where a pilot brought down his airplane. And Hollywood was where you’d find movie stars and swimming pools.
Today, those terms have completely different meanings.
At some point in the late Eighties/early Nineties, women were no longer content to merely trim their lady gardens; they dispensed with landscaping altogether and mowed the gardens down completely. The natural look was passé. Clean-shaven, so we were told, was the way to go. Men liked that sort of thing.
After all, it worked for female porn stars, so it would work for us.
Some of us (like me) weren’t convinced. After all, I’m not a porn star, nor do I wish to be. Nevertheless, women everywhere rushed to schedule their Brazilian or Hollywood waxes once a month, right along with their mani/pedi and hair salon appointments.
‘You can wear a bikini with no overhang!’ they’d declare afterwards, delighted. ‘No bush bulge!’ ‘My husband/boyfriend/girlfriend loves it!’
I remained skeptical. I don’t wear a bikini. And my husband is perfectly happy with the status quo. (Or at least he says he is.)
Of course, for those who do opt for the full monty, looking like a pre-pubescent girl comes with a price. First, there’s the pain of having hot wax applied to one’s nether regions, which is then methodically wrenched off by an indifferent aesthetician. One’s bush disappears, replaced with red welts, swelling, and the need for Tylenol and a cold compress. (I can handle having my eyebrows waxed. I cannot handle having my lady bits waxed.)
Then there’s the expense. Not only does ripping one’s genital hair out by the roots hurt, it costs a lot of money to do so – and it has to be done every month. Touch-ups are needed to take care of the stubble and keep the forestry at bay. Not to mention the time spent in abject pain and misery, when one could instead be devouring popcorn and watching a movie at the local theatre (maybe “Last Tango in Paris,” with Maria Schneider, and her very Seventies bush?).
Napoleon Bonaparte was quite taken with Josephine’s lush lower typography. Here is an excerpt from one of many love letters he wrote to her, this one penned in 1796:
You know that I will never forget the little visits, you know, the little black forest… I kiss it a thousand times and wait impatiently for the moment I will be in it.
I mean, if it was good enough for Napoleon…
I think in the end the choice to go sleek or not is extremely personal, and it’s a choice that every woman should make on her own, without societal pressure. If there are women who want to look like Miley Cyrus down there, who don’t mind the pain or the expense or the time commitment, I say, go for it. But do it because you want to, not because it’s expected or your boyfriend demands it or because you feel pressured to conform.
For me? I’ll continue to let my topiary go au natural, thank you very much.
I think we need to take our va-jay-jays back. We need to stage a depilatory rebellion and let our lady gardens flower once again. We need to say, ‘We’ve had it with the pain and the expense and the ingrown hairs, and we’re not gonna take it anymore.’
In the meantime, pass me the Tylenol…
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