The first time I noticed I was growing pubic hairs was while in the bath. I was rather young, and hadn’t any knowledge of the changes a body goes through yet (although I was told that when you get your first period, you suddenly evolve into Stage Three: A Woman.)
I thought it was a bit of dirt. Or a drifting hair from my head (and those of you who’ve seen me in real life can testify: I’ve got a lot of fucking hair on my head.) Either way, I wasn’t sure, so I reached out to the supposed bastion of knowledge that was my mother and asked what that thing on my down-there bits was (not like that, of course).
Now, I may not remember this correctly, but I swear to god, she laughed. She laughed and told me, cheerfully, that it was the first of many hairs to come, and that I’d now be growing hair in places. It was part of the progression to Stage Three: A Woman. Mum never had any qualms about telling me things like this, although being from the generation that she was from (born in the Fifties, growing up in Sixties working-class Belgium), her knowledge about sex and the changing body was limited to the bare bones of birds and bees.
But I digress, because this is a story about pubic hair, and to an extent about body hair.
So, now I had a pubic hair. And soon, I had a bunch of them, along with little growing hairs under my arms. I felt rather cool. It was like those hairs proved that I was on my way to adulthood. Never mind the fact that I was, like, ten years old and blooming early.
I had a bit of a time trying to figure out how to keep my hairs in my swimming costume when PE swim classes came around. Not to mention the palaver of the first time I shaved my armpits. That’s a … special moment, right there.
Although the hair on my armpits got shaved plenty of times, I have always been hesitant about shaving my pubic hair. I was (and am) rather fond of it, and don’t see any reason as to why I should get rid of it. I’ve got no problem with the occasional trim, but the few times I have shaved my mons and my pubic area were for very particular reasons – getting prepped for my gastric op or having my pussy cast for the Great Wall of Vagina for example.
There has been a revived conversation on the subject of female body hair as of late – with the likes of Cameron Diaz addressing the subject in her new Body Book amongst others. To that I say GOOD. It’s a subject that needs to be talked about.
As the fabulous Rubyyy Jones said in her discourse on the matter –
The trends of female body hair are fabulous, the discussion is important, and with each article and individual who brings light to this topic we move forward. I’d like to continue to help move the discussion forward too. We move forward because it seems we’re starting to get that it’s a choice. A personal choice. Over time it matters less and less to me what society believes, feel or wants. I got it. It’s a personal choice and my own opinion of me becomes the only one I consult when it comes to my body. This sounds like a no-brainer but when you’ve been programmed most of your life to believe you need to do, achieve, maintain something physically to be accepted as an individual, this becomes fundamental. It has been a very interesting transition indeed.
It’s a choice, indeed. And about a year ago, I made the choice myself – letting my underarm hair and pubic hair grow. I can’t say I’m embarrassed or ashamed about it. On the contrary, I love my pubic hair. It’s soft, it feels lovely to run your fingers through it and it’s a part of me. The same goes for my underarm hair (and the hairs on my legs for that matter).
It’s a choice I made. And I wish I could go back in time to tell my younger self, that self sitting in the bathtub at age 10 that it really isn’t as bad as she thinks it is. In fact, it’s not bad at all. Hair is hair. Whether you shave it off, trim it, keep it, fingercomb it while coming down from a brilliantly sexy session or whatever you choose to do with it. It’s your choice. And that’s really cool.