(If you have not already done so, read Blog #11, Baldness)
Grooming the bikini line is something every woman does from age 12 on. It’s a must. Keep the strays out of sight when wearing a swimsuit. But in your late 30s, you start to see some out-of-the-neighborhood strays. The bush is getting more lush. The hair is thicker, and there is more of it. Some strays have hitchhiked into the next neighborhood. Others must have sprouted from roots that are inches long running under your skin. Even if you get waxed regularly, there are hairs that pop up in between appointments and in the most visible places.
Anyway, one day you are laying out by the pool. You look down at the book you are holding in your lap and you see out of the corner of your eye a curly black hair. It’s so far from your crotch it’s almost in the middle of your thigh. And you’re like, “WTF?” So you look up to be sure no one is watching you. Certain of being under the radar, you grab it between your nails and tug. You flinch at the discomfort, only to find it’s still there. You could keep digging at it in public, or if you’re smart, you’ll go in the bathroom and take care of it. But then you find another, and another. It’s like they are popping up like Whack-a-Moles. They are four inches south of your puda on your inner thigh. Holy shit! There is one by your C-section scar. That’s a good six inches away from the pleasure palace. What the hell is pubic hair doing there? You muff is way out of bounds.
Finally you get all the strays taken care of and enjoy the rest of your time at the pool.
The next morning, you are careful to shave your legs, thighs, inner thighs, and any other place where you might get a surprise. So there you are again, looking cute by the pool in your one-piece (because the tankini is an old lady’s attempt at a bikini), looking down at your book and then you see it. Another stray, this time on the opposite leg, closer to the lining of your suit but still way out of the line of where it should be. No other hair on your body grows that fast, yet somehow your pubes project ¾” out of your skin in a matter of hours.
Maybe you can cleverly hide the offending hair by casually holding your beer or glass in front of it, like that’s how you always rest your hand. Or maybe you can cover it up with a book, that you happen to carry with you everywhere. Or you can just run to the bathroom and use your pincher fingers to go at it again. It’s a never-ending story, at least until all your pubes fall out. But I’m not that old yet so I can’t talk about that. Check the blog in about 20 years.