GYL* Downstairs

I would just like to put it out to the world that I am not a hairy girl. The vegetation on my Map of Tassie is clearly within the demarcated boundaries. However according to the fashion of the times Tasmania should be a veritable wasteland of razed skin and stumpy stubble. 

I am fairly lucky in that I can wear a bikini and there is generally no escaping of errant pubic hair. If sexy times are to be had, Beloved does not need an afro comb or tooth-pick to start or end any horizontal adventures.

I have always been confident in my stance of the keeping of my lady-hair. Number one: it is hard enough to keep my legs and eyebrows waxed, underarms shaved, hair (HEAD hair) coloured and cut, face made up and pretty, clothes ironed, nails neat and body relatively toned (work in progress) let alone worry about some fur on a currently severely underutilised part of my anatomy.  Number two: regrowth is a bitch. I spend about 90% of my life in front of teenagers. I do NOT need to be standing in front of 30 teenagers with an itchy fanny. And let us not talk about the actual pain of the waxing, the ingrown hairs, pimples etc.

I haven’t always been so adverse to the idea of vag-scaping. I flirted with it a while back but I had a bit of an unpleasant reaction to it so I left the idea alone. And I haven’t really thought about it since. I am in a loving relationship where my partner is happy with the status-grow. I mean if he gets to keep the hair on his crack and sack, all is fair. (And that is not to say that if he did de-fuzz the beast that I would do the same. He has tried that one before. )

Due to my over-sharing nature, a number of Beloved’s friends have become apprised to the fact that I live a 70s life.  Teasing me mercilessly for an hour at an engagement party was sort of funny.  I was a bit tipsy and I am fun to razz because I will always rise to the bait and nothing embarrasses me. However what did shit me was that Beloved just sat there and let them do it. He claimed that I was holding my own but it would have been nice for him to chip in somewhere saying that he didn’t mind a bit of wookie action.

Fast-forward a fortnight and I am having a thoroughly pleasant night with the female halves of Beloved’s friends. There was great food, lovely wine and pleasant company- until the boys come to pick up the girls and somehow the topic of my carpeted entry-hall came up again.  What annoys me in the ‘teasing’ is the comment that I don’t love my husband enough to wax it, and the idea that it is generally dirty and publicly(pubicly?) unacceptable. Huh? When did something no-one can see become such a topic of hot debate, a forum of open discussion?

I am sure I could have nipped the conversation in the bud early on, but when you’re having a laugh and a few drinks it can be difficult. The problem now being, that from an interaction slightly related to my fur-factor, I left a lovely evening in tears. I haven’t even spoken to Beloved about it, even though he listened to me sniffle for a half an hour drive.  I don’t think I can. Because I don’t know whose side he is on. If it is mine he will have to acknowledge that I have issues the offender, and they are good friends. If it is NOT my side – well. A whole other can of worms isn’t it?  I will have a husband who is thinking I was too sensitive, tipsy and PMS-y to boot, and may not respect that I don’t wanna interact with this dude much at present.

But whatever comes of it, there is NO chance of Beloved getting the ‘pleasure’ of seeing me looking like a pre-pubescent girl. It is the principle of the thing.

* GYL in this case standing for Grungy Yeti Locks. Sorry. It is all I could come up with after a whole day of lesson planning.