Thankfully, my eyebrows have never grown together into a cartoon-villainish unibrow and I don’t have UFH – “unwanted facial hair” (as if any woman wants facial hair).  But the knowledge that sexy celebrities wax not only their faces but private areas always gave me the heebie-jeebies.   I also found it curious that a January 2010 poll on Glamour.com showed that a majority of women get their follicles pulled out from time to time.

As it turns out, in my uncharacteristic naiveté, I had completely missed the fact that several of my friends wax their nether regions as well.  I asked around and was surprised by the results of my own unscientific poll.

What got me started was an article in a magazine my sister had purchased that reported how men view the whole waxing thing.  Do they like it or not?  (I’ve tried finding the magazine to cite it but can’t!)   The results were mixed.  I was horrified at the whole prospect.  When I got home, I mentioned the article to my husband, ranting and raving about how some men actually wanted their chicks to look like prepubescent girls.  The nerve!

Then my husband spoke:  “It might be interesting.”  Gasp!

That mumbled comment of his stuck in my brain and churned around for a while.   I started researching the topic.  Why did women wax?  Was I missing something here?  I went online to chat rooms, perused beauty spa websites, watched videos of the process (really, it’s unbelievable what’s on the Internet), and asked more detailed questions of friends.  I studied the options – bikini vs. Brazilian vs. Hollywood, home waxing or a professional salon process, a plethora of products designed to lessen the inevitable pain of yanking out every last hair root in an area typically adverse to rough treatment.

Now my husband’s birthday was coming up, and I started thinking, “Well, maybe once.”  But every time I drove by the salon or picked up the phone to call, I chickened out.  Cluck, cluck!  I was terrified.  For one thing, there was the sheer pain.  I don’t care what pain-reducing product is out there:  I have seen the video, and that has got to hurt at least as bad as the twisting pinches my mother applied to her children’s upper arms when we were too loud in church.  I do not wish to repeat that sensation.  Then there were the poses you have to strike for the “esthetician” (talk about a euphemism) to reach all the areas of UPH (my abbreviation for “unwanted pubic hair”).  It seemed like a perverted rendition of Madonna’s vogueing craze.  And finally, salons described that the hair grows back differently, sparser and finer.  I had no idea before that I was attached to my triangle of hair, but I wasn’t convinced I wanted to replace my growth with a presumably new and improved version.

Unwilling, however, to abandon my idea entirely, I decided to shave instead.  Maybe to make up for wussing-out of the waxing experience, I decided to be particularly brave.  I would go Hollywood-style.  I purchased an electric razor, bikini area razors (teeny little things with a protective end so you don’t accidentally mutilate your own vagina), special bikini area shaving cream, and follow-up ointment.  I stored these things away until my husband’s birthday.

On my own personal D-day (troops are storming the beach no matter what!), my husband left for work, I dropped my kids off at school, and I pulled out all of my products.  I reviewed my plan, took stock of my supplies, and checked my nerves.  They were wound tight.

Did I mention I was chicken?!  What chicken wants to be plucked?  And what chicken plucks itself!

I trimmed the area and poured a bath.  I wielded my weapons of torture.  I began shaving.  It took a while, but nothing was irrevocably damaged or even slightly maimed.  Not a drop of blood fell, nor did I squeal a single time.

That night, I tucked myself into bed wearing frilly panties and strategically-placed gift bows.  My husband began unwrapping.  Now I will cease this part of the narrative because telling more would cross my boldface line of marital privacy.  Suffice it to say, he was happily surprised.

The next day, I had a painful rash. Oh well.

It was an interesting experience for us both, and I discovered a little more about why women wax.  Things felt…different.  Not better or worse, but definitely different.

What about other ladies out there?  Do you strip the land bare?  Keep the untamed wilderness? Or trim the hedges? That’s what one of the guys in that magazine article said:  He liked the idea that a woman would go to the trouble of doing a little landscaping for him.

(And if you men want to pipe up about this topic as well, go right ahead!)

“Let my lover come into his garden and taste its choice fruits.”

Song of Solomon 4:15

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