My Bush is The New Black

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You can re-visit my original ode to pubes here. 


As clearly stated, I don’t mind bodily hair and I certainly have no problem with pubes. The only bodily hair I ever feel compelled to get rid of is that under my arms, and only as result of fear of frightening off other humans and most animals. I am naturally a very hairy person. The thick dark hair I have on my head and am so often complimented on means just as thick, just as dark hair almost everywhere else. For nearly seven tiresome years I’ve been hacking, shaving, plucking, veeting and waxing at my bodily hair, ambitiously wishing to awake every day with a body as bald as a coot. But simultaneously whinging about how I couldn’t wait until I was ‘grown up’ so I could embrace my au natural self. Well, I’m a grown up now, sort of (although really more of an adolescent with a license to drink), so why am I not doing what I’ve basically always wanted?



Yeah, porn stars have vaginas not dissimilar to pre-pubescent teens and yeah, lots of men and women prefer to keep their pubic area similarly trimmed, but let me assure you- shaving your fanny until it resembles a Lidl chicken breast will never tickle everyone’s fancy- so why do it if it’s not what you want? Admittedly, my boyfriend prefers it when I don’t look like I’m smuggling a small family of otters in my knickers but, with the exception of being in a bikini and in the more-public-than-usual eye, I much prefer to let it all hang out and go native. If not for myself, then for my lovers. I think it only polite to remind them that they are in fact performing cunnilingus on a woman, and not a girl and if it’s something they aren’t too keen on, I have no problem in showing them the door.


I am, in no right, saying that shaving or removing your pubic hair makes you any less of a woman, simply just that, for me and my preferences; pubes are the way forward. So consider this my official resignation from the razor. I’m sooooo done with paying nearly £50 a month for someone to scald my labia and leave me sticky and unable to walk properly for hours. From now on, I am embracing my inner cave woman. Criticize and judge me all you want- I am so relieved to finally draw a line under preening my pubes. Don’t pretend you won’t be jealous when I’m at the pub an hour before you simply because I no longer have to spend an extra fifteen minutes in the bath, bent over like a contortionist to try and get a clean shave on my arsehole. Sorry, not sorry.



Bodily hair is not the enemy and it pains me to see girls as young as ten and eleven (and I’m sure even younger) endlessly plucking their eyebrows and shaving their limbs in an extreme effort to conform to the standards of their peers. When I was still at school in Scotland (bear in mind, I was only there until I was fourteen), I was mocked and teased by the girls in PE who had perfect hairless, fake tanned pins and lived to laugh at my slightly chubby, pale and hairy calves. I didn’t cave. In all fairness, this was mostly down to the fact that my mother (empowering me from the youngest age) refuse to let me touch my body with a razor until I was almost sixteen and going to a pool party. From then (as you can read in December’s pubey post) the elimination of any hair below the belt became part of my daily routine, then part of my weekly routine, before finally something I limited to before I was going out and potentially getting some sausage. Not shaving my barely-hairy legs at fourteen didn’t make me any less smart, forgetting to wax when I first slept with the guy I’d had a crush on for a year didn’t change my wicked sense of humour and refusing to waste any more of my adult life doubled over in the bath and ridding my lady garden of all and any shrubbery won’t make me any less beautiful or sexually appealing.


As previously mentioned, the day I could quit shaving and waxing forever is one I have looked forward to for a very long time. If I didn’t before, dating some rugby chap back in 2014 changed my opinion on everything. He was really mean to me, and I loved it. I wanted to chase him and make him fall in love with me so people could dub me as some wild rugby hunter and tamer. Obviously, this didn’t go my way and I ended up the victim of a hump and dump. Tragic. Anyway, on one of the few dates that he did take me on (and before I’d given him my precious flower), he explained to me the strong and passionate hatred he had… for pubes. He showed me a picture of a woman he’d dated previously- who, may I add, was some incredibly gorgeous, Mediterranean-looking babe in her early twenties. It wasn’t until he told me that he pulled out of their first sexual encounter – mid foreplay – and called things off that I recoiled in horror. It was beyond me how such an arrogant and sexist man had won the affection of such a woman in the first place, but to turn her down because she hadn’t waxed?! Mind. Blown. Unfortunately, I can’t say that it put me off him and I didn’t let him enter my perfectly shaved nether regions the following week, because it didn’t. But it is something that has been etched into my brain ever since.


 I don’t believe in having regrets. I don’t regret sleeping with that complete knob of a man (I’ve repeated that mistake more times than I’d care to admit) and I don’t regret ever shaving any part of my body. I just wish I could go back to my younger self, wishing the years away so she could finally grow her pubes out, and ask her ‘Why Not’?


Welcome to 2017, where my bush is the new black.



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