Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow


I spend half my time in Florida living in a bathing suit and I hope I don’t offend y’all, but I’d like to address a sensitive issue that has been driving me bananas. Why do women have to have hair on their genitalia? I don’t care that men have hair there; they have hair everywhere. I’m talking about we absolutely, positively exquisite and alluring women. I mean really. This genetic predisposition to have a forest growing below the navel is disgusting. And, it’s become more than just a minor inconvenience. I tried to shave the entire thing off (don’t ever use Nair—I thought I’d died and for three days ended up in hell), but after shaving I found five-hundred razor burns and enough razor cuts to surpass all the razor cuts my husband has sustained in his entire lifetime.

Someone told me blondes have a lesser problem with hair in that region, so I died my hair and then you know dabbed a bit “down there” hoping to coax it into behaving. No such luck. I developed a severe rash which necessitated seeing my gynecologist who howled when I explained the situation as to how it developed. “Absolutely never die your eyebrows or pubic hair,” she said. “Let a professional do it.” Right! She also gave me a prescription for an ointment my insurance carrier considered not on its list so it cost me eighty-five dollars for a tube the size of an Avon sample of their latest lip color. So, shaving is a major bother, Nair is out of the question, and dying does nothing to inhibit growth and costs big bucks at the pharmacy. What other choices are there?

As a young woman I don’t remember having the density of the forest that I cart around now, and then I realized why! I have four children. I birthed them during the years they “prepped” you for childbirth as though it were an alien experience they needed to get you ready for. In addition to a full-bag enema they shaved every inch of hair that was within two feet of the birthing canal. I remember not wanting to undress in front of my husband. I’d just given birth and my lower body looked age ten. Many years later I found out he thought it was “kinky”. Now he tells me! But the real point is that the birthing “prep” encouraged this forest to grow in leaps and bounds. Had they left me alone, I would not have this monstrous problem each and every time I don a bathing suit. We’re talking class-action law suit here. I simply need to find an attorney who is suffering from this same dilemma and go for it. And a female judge who feels the same way. At the very least I should come out with enough money to have a bikini wax every spring for the next three decades. After that I won’t be wearing a bathing suit anymore. I won’t remember what it is.

However—even with the problem sort of solved—it doesn’t answer my question as to why we woman are total apes when it comes to our genitalia. We can cure polio. We can send a man to the moon. We can invent computers that are so inexpensive that virtually every household in America can afford one. Why can’t we rid ourselves of genital forests, painlessly and permanently? That is the question. Surely someone has the answer. My personal favorite is a pill you swallow three days in a row and hair on a woman’s body ceases to ever grow again. Develop that and you’re richer than Bill Gates. Since it hasn’t been developed I’m back to where I started. As if the area of hair growth on my legs and in my armpits isn’t bad enough; which brings up another subject I must caution you about. I had laser hair removal on my legs. They promised me I would never shave again. It costs as much as three mortgage payments, but who cares if you never have to shave again. They lied. Also, they forgot to tell me not to go out in the sun for three weeks before and after each and every treatment. The reason is you will get brown spots all over your legs. In my case hundreds of them! How can they forget to tell me that? They claim they did tell me. It’s in the fine print right along with the disclaimer that each person’s results will vary and no guarantee of the degree of success is warranted. Add to that, the fact that the appointments have to be scattered over a period of eighteen months and the week prior to each appointment you can’t shave. So one week out of each month you look and feel like a gorilla.

The worst part of all was the pain involved. They stated there would be some minor discomfort. Huh! If having a hot match stuck to your leg three thousand times in succession is minor discomfort I’m the tooth fairy. After screaming my way through seven treatments they let me go. They apologized for my discomfort and said they had a topical ointment for sale that could be applied an hour prior to the treatments that anesthetized the skin and made the treatments much more comfortable. Now they tell me! When I asked why they didn’t inform me prior to the procedure the technician stated the cream costs a hundred dollars for four ounces and most patrons don’t elect to purchase it. THIS patron would have elected to purchase it no matter what the cost. Hey—there’s no price tag on torture.

Obviously, using this method for the genital area is out of the question. Not to despair! I received a coupon in the mail for twenty dollars off a bikini wax. I made an appointment. They stated there would be some minimum discomfort, too. But I was armed with the hundred dollar ointment I purchased at the laser salon. I figured it might come in handy some day, so I bought a jar. I wasn’t worried. I figured nothing could be as bad as the laser-leg ordeal. Guess what?

I figured wrong.

Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River, and Divorcing Dwayne. Visit the website at J.L. Miles. Write to Jackie at http://www.blogger.com/Jackie@jlmiles.com.

When it comes to words, whether written or spoken, I believe women automatically need more of them to convey whatever it is they wish to convey. I’m not trying to be sexist, mind you, just honest.

If I want my husband to take out the garbage I might say, “My hands are full and the kitchen trash is overflowing the bin! Can you be a sweetie and take it out for me?”

Were the situation reversed he’d say, “#%!! damn!” And of course I’d come running. That’s his two words to my twenty-three.

And if I’m feeling rather tired and don’t feel like attending the neighbor’s ballyhoo, I might say, “You know I’ve had a tough week and I’m feeling really beat. Do you mind if we send over a bottle of wine and our apologies?” If he were the one not wanting to go he’d simply say, “Tell’em we’re not coming.” His four words to my twenty-six.

When I share my thoughts with him on why I feel the world has gotten too commercial and ask him why that is—hoping to coax him into a meaningful conversation about the shifting times—he says, “Dunno.” One word and he’s back to his newspaper.

A woman’s need for an abundance of words not only includes the ones spoken, but those written, as well. I read this story that totally supports this hypothesis. Apparently, Sally and Frank—both writers by profession—kept daily journals. Upon their untimely demise my friend was sorting through their papers and discovered the following entries dated January 26th.

Sally wrote:

The New Year is not even one month old and Frank is acting very strange. We made plans to meet for a drink right after work. I got tied up and arrived late. He didn’t say anything, but seemed very distant. I asked if anything was wrong. He said, “No.” I asked him if he was upset that I was late and hadn’t called. He said, “No.” When we got home, he immediately turned on the television and started surfing channels. I’d counted on a romantic evening in front of the fireplace. I sat down and tried to cuddle up to him. He smiled slightly, but never said a word. I felt like he definitely had something on his mind, but was hesitant to discuss it. The silence was too much for me. I went to bed. Soon he joined me and much to my surprise he responded to my caresses and we made love! But afterwards, he fell asleep immediately. I lay there and cried. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. It’s like he no longer wants anything to do with me. My life is a disaster. I just know I’m losing him and I don’t know what to do.

Frank wrote:

Didn’t get the promotion, but had a great roll in the hay.

Words—too many or not nearly enough? Either way, I rest my case.


J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne (April 2008, Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow), Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek.

http://www.jlmiles.com/

Jackie@jlmiles.com