By Jeanie Yodel.
Hairlessness: noun; ‘the quality of not having hair’. Not the most enticing of qualities. It is a quality without quantity. It is lonely and cold. Like one of those weird sphynx cats shivering eerily in a corner, looking up at you with its wrinkly, bald head. Not many people want to touch those alien anti-cats; they are the scrotums of the feline world, loved only by fellow misfits and freak shows.
OK that might be a bit harsh, but in general us bog-standard humans are all about the aesthetically- pleasing, endearingly cute kitties. Just look at the internet big-hitters: keyboard cat, with his tufts of fur protruding from his miniature T-shirt, and Maru, who just can’t fit his big, bewhiskered head through those teensy shoeboxes. We dig the fluff. Except when it comes to pussies, of course. I’m talking about vaginas now. LOL, I did a link. Stay with me. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not sitting up here on my big hairy high horse, gearing up to slander all those silly bimbos who shave their bits and set back their sistas. In fact there’s a draft between my legs as I type. A reminder, every time I drop my breeks, that sometime, somehow, this most independent of women conformed to the pressures of modern society, or the media or men, or all of the above, and went muff-less.
I like to think it’s ‘just for me’. But then again I don’t derive a great deal of pleasure from the ingrown hairs, angry rashes and patchy regrowths that grace my nether regions. And I don’t particularly enjoy the upkeep procedures. Waxing: no amount of senseless chat from a beautician can detract from that spine-chilling ripping sound as hundreds of hairs are wrenched from their roots. Shaving: a massacre, like your own shower horror scene. Watch aghast as blood springs from every sore pore and disappears down the plug hole, then hate yourself as you smear your flatmate’s Dream Matte Mousse over the red, lumpy leftovers. Hair-removal cream: don’t even go there, unless you want to smell like mould for days on end.
I distinctly remember the comedian Rob Delaney pronouncing his pro-muff tendencies during his stand-up show. “I don’t understand why Cosmo magazine tells you to shave it off, wax it, melt it, iron it – don’t do that!” Oral sex with a hairless lady is, he said, “like fellating a squid”. I scoff at the craziness of the female species – yet I am a hypocrite. Likewise, I have to agree that the female anatomy, or at least my anatomy, is not exactly model material. More like a ‘face for the radio’. So why did I take off the mask? Do I just downright hate the thought of a big grizzly tangle getting in the way of all the hot sex I’m having? Ha, I wish. There’s a week or two’s window to get lucky after you get waxed before you’re back to bush. It doesn’t always time in perfectly, and nor does it seem to matter: smooth or spiky, I’ve never had any comments/complaints. Do guys even notice? Like when we get our hair cut, and you have no idea? Am I a victim of peer pressure? Well, many a Saturday has been spent amongst a group of giggling girls talking about their hair- removal habits. I nurse a glass of wine, nod emphatically and throw back my head with laughter whilst taking mental notes. “So that’s normal – got it”. Or am I intimidated by the ‘designer vaginas’ of pornography girls? I admit, I have paused at the close-ups and turned my head to the side and frowned and thought, “So that’s…normal?”
Maybe it’s just keeping up appearances. Like drawing on your eyebrows, or getting spray-painted shellac nails – it’s fashion, innit. A friend told me she would never get permanent laser hair removal on her downstairs area in case it suddenly becomes cool again to have a massive fanny ‘fro. Here’s hoping that trend will make a comeback in my lifetime, then at least I’ll know if I’m doing this ‘just for me’ after all.