If we are friends on facebook, you may know that I got my
first Brazilian wax last week. Because
that’s the kind of thing I share with my friends and family. So when I am
telling you that this blog post is about to be TMI, you should probably run away.
Really, you should stop reading now.
Because I’m going to talk about my lady garden. Like, a lot.
In detail.
Run.
No???
OK, you people still reading, you are my people. Hi.
Here’s the thing. I
got my Brazilian and I had it all planned out. I was going to write a super funny blog post
about how this friend of mine, someone I see socially, someone who knows my
kids and whose kids I know… had to come eye to “eye” with my butt hole and how
effing weird that is.
But that’s not the blog post that wants to be written about
this experience. I kept trying to go
funny, but the stuff inside me isn’t funny.
Not, like inside me inside me.
I mean, like, in my head, not in my snatch.
Just to be clear.
So a bit of background.
Why am I forty-one years old and only getting my first Brazilian? We have already established here on the
public interwebz for future employers to see that I like to be relatively hairless down under. I went so far as to
try laser hair removal. Apparently, my
pubes are too light in color, so it didn’t work.
And now you know the carpet is lighter than the drapes or
whatever. Yes, I have very light brown
pubes. You can sleep at night now that
you know that. I initially called them
dirty blonde, but I don’t really want to use the word dirty in reference to my
hoohah… you know?
Anyway.
I like fewer pubes in the way of my general enjoyment of
that part of my body, so I was shaving.
I tried getting waxed once, maybe eleven or twelve years ago. It was the worst pain of my life. And that includes gallstones. I just remember thinking, something is
wrong. There is no way in hell that
women do this every month. I stopped
her. It was awful. I was very badly
bruised for days after.
On my junk, people.
Badly, badly bruised on my junk.
So I swore off waxing until recently when friends convinced
me that my first experience was an anomaly and I should try again. So I tried again. It hurt the normal amount. I wasn’t bruised. And now my vag is all smooth and soft and feels
like the skin on the inside of my wrist.
It’s amazing and I love it and will totally keep doing it if I can
afford to.
And yes, I know vag refers to the internal canal, not the
part that was waxed. But I’m not saying
that word with two v’s. I hate that
word. I can say moist all day, but I
will not say the word with two v’s in it.
Shudder.
OK, so here’s the part I need to talk about.
OMG, I’m over 500 words in and I haven’t even started
getting to the point. I am a terrible
writer. You should all leave now.
Still here?
OK.
I want to talk about shame and the lady garden.
Here’s what happened.
My good friend is an aesthetician.
She tints my eyelashes for me, and has waxed my brows. She gives facials and knows a lot about skin
care. But mostly, she pretty much spends
her work days ripping out pubic hair.
Someone has to do it. We can’t do it to ourselves.
She was one of the people who convinced me to try again, and
a few of our other mutual friends go to her to have it done.
I had already decided that I would give it another try. But when faced with the idea of someone I
knew down there looking at my junk, I balked.
Because that thing is not cute.
It’s not cute.
I didn’t know it wasn’t cute until pretty recently. The first time I heard about labiaplasty, I
was so confused. I mean, what?? People are getting plastic surgery on their
hoohahs?? What could possibly be going
on down there to justify such a thing?
So I did what any voyeuristic freak would do, I googled
before and after pictures.
Obviously.
And that was when I realized that the kind of labia I have is
the kind that people think they need to get plastic surgery to fix.
This wasn’t something I understood before. No one lucky enough to get face to face with
my taco has ever had any complaints. I
had seen a bunch of other people’s. They
all looked different and pretty. Mine
seemed fine and was in the mix. It’s not
freakish or anything. Just… you know…
sort of external I guess. It had
never occurred to me to be bothered by this.
I’m in this group of women online, and several months ago,
someone posted about the term, “busted ravioli,” to describe the kind of junk
which is more inner labia than outer labia.
Like the opposite of the closed clamshell. A couple of people said they couldn’t imagine
having a busted ravioli type and how embarrassing it would be.
This is generally an open and supportive group of
women.
I was like, uh, I’m not gonna lie. Mine kind of looks like a ravioli. Ravioli are delicious though. I mean, yum??
Ravioli?? Right?? Or roast beef curtains? I like roast beef too. But I didn’t say anything. Because I didn’t want anyone to know I had
the bad kind.
What the actual fuck?
Is this really something to worry about??
My sausage wallet works awesome. I have joked that I can orgasm from a stiff
breeze. I can have multiples. I can come from just penetration. It smells good. It tastes good. I don’t need synthetic lube most of the
time. My not-so-bearded-anymore clam is
the effing bomb. It’s awesome.
I love that thing. I
love it long time.
But… I didn’t want anyone to know. I wanted to go to a stranger, whose waxing
skills were unknown to me, rather than to a friend because I didn’t want her to
know.
You know, about the ravioli.
Seriously?? This is
something I’m worrying about? It’s total
bullshit. She does this for a
living. She has seen all of the
labia. She has seen all of the
buttholes. She has no doubt seen inner
thigh scars like mine before too, from ingrown hairs/cysts. She has seen all of the junk. She doesn’t give a fuck that mine looks like
a ravioli. She doesn’t care about my
thigh scars. She doesn’t care about the
extra skin from my twin pregnancy that kind of migrated down to the lowest
point on my torso because of pesky gravity, except inasmuch as she has to make
sure I pull that skin tight so she doesn’t damage me. She doesn’t care about my hanging belly skin
except to get it out of the way.
Why am I feeling shame about this? It’s stupid!
So I sucked it up and went to my friend, because I trusted
her not to hurt me. (Well, not to injure
me, anyway.) And you know what? It was
fine. She was very professional, and I
really wasn’t worried about it once it was happening. I was more concerned about the decidedly
unpleasant sensation of hair being ripped out of my vajungle.
But I still felt like I needed to talk about it with you
guys. Because this thing? With the body shame? It’s insidious and it feeds on silence. Shame loves it when we keep our mouths
shut. So no silence.
I know women who are worried about how they smell. How they look. How it works.
Women who think that everyone else can come without clitoral stimulation
and something is wrong with them because they need that. Women who use damaging douches or weird
perfumes because they’re worried about their natural smell.
Fuck. That. Noise.
Enough.
Shame, I will not feed you.
You don’t get my silence.
And ravioli are delicious. So there.
