I’ve had a rather complicated relationship with my public hair over the years, and I think, that might have a little something to do with Goth Boy (and The Very First One.) Not long after we first started dating, he asked me to do something that I’d never even considered before. He asked me to shave. And when I tell you that I was entirely unprepared for it, you should consider that the understatement of the century.
Allow me to explain.
Holiday
I’d gone on holiday with my family, and of course, the distance was the absolute worst thing that could ever have happened to me, because I was dramatic like that. I missed Goth Boy more than I thought it was possible to miss someone – and I was quite comfortable with our long-distance relationship by that point. The missing was strong.
We kept in touch via text messages that started as soon as we awoke, then never stopped until we went to bed. I was the Kevin-esque teenager, tutting and crying, “That’s so unfair!” whenever I was told to put the phone away.
Never at the dinner table.
We’re meant to be enjoying the view, NotSo.
Can’t you put that damn thing away for five minutes?
One afternoon, as we were getting ready to go and explore the snowy mountains, a text message from him popped up:
“I think you should shave.”
I read it, then reread it, then read it again three, four, five more times. What did he mean? Shave? My head? My eyebrows? My… pubic hair?!?
Unfortunately, me and the family had to get going, and as soon as we left the little plot of land that our cabin was located, all phone signal was out of the question.
For the rest of the day, I must’ve checked my phone every thirty seconds. No signal. No signal. No signal. The response that I’d attempted to send on the car journey to the mountains was still sitting in the outbox, waiting for an ounce of network coverage that never came. It was the quietest that my phone had been since I’d first got it.
Eventually, of course, we made our way back to the cabin after a long, long day. I breathed a massive sigh of relief when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz buzz buzz buzz. They were all texts from Goth Boy.
Was I mad at him?
Had he crossed a line?
Why hadn’t I replied yet?
“I’m sorry. Mountain stuff. No signal,” I tapped back, hoping that he wasn’t too mad/worried/whatever. I quickly sent a second text: “What did you mean by shave?”
He took forever to reply. My heart was pounding in my chest for the entire time. I thought I knew what he meant, but I had to be sure. Did he really mean that? And… like… what did “shave” mean? All of it? Some of it? A pattern? Design? Honestly, my mind boggled at the thought.
Shave
“Trim,” he finally replied. “Neaten your pubes up, you know?”
I didn’t know. Not at all. I had no idea what that meant. What was a trim? How did one trim their pubic hair? Did you go to a hairdresser for that sort of thing? The internet wasn’t as big a thing as it is now, so it wasn’t like I could just hop on Reddit or Twitter and ask people. The only porn I’d really seen at that point were my Pops’ pool party VHS tapes and Bestie’s Hot Wives magazine… and they all had au natural bushes.
Still, as soon as we got home from the holiday, I grabbed my lady shaver and went to town. Literally. I trimmed one side, then I trimmed the other. It was ridiculously uneven when I looked in the mirror, so I trimmed a bit more, then a bit more, then a bit more… until there was nothing left but a landing strip, three hairs wide. It looked so ridiculous that, in the end, I just got rid of the whole lot.
I was then as bald as a cue ball.
Of course, that presented a new set of problems. What if Goth Boy didn’t like me new bald appearance? What if I’d gone too far? What if I didn’t like it? I wasn’t sure yet. Between him telling me to shave and The Very First One making me keep my underwear on during sex, I was starting to think that I had an ugly/deformed/weird vulva/vagina/etc. I had so many questions, so many insecurities running through my mind, and I genuinely considered dumping Goth Boy over it.
I didn’t do that, obviously. Instead, I willed that hair to grow back like nothing I’d ever willed before, then resigned myself to baldness when not enough had grown back by the time I was due to see him again. Bald, it was.
Goth Boy loved it, thankfully. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such joy in his eyes before, and that made me want to keep my newly-found baldness, which I did.
Today, twenty years or so later, I’m still just as bald as I was on that day. I never really grew it back, but I did switch from shaving to waxing (thank fuck.) I still have no idea how to “trim” my pubic hair, nor have I ever met a man that didn’t like it. (Shocker.)
So, yeah, that’s the story of how I was prompted to shave one day, then never grew my pubes back again.
I’m still slightly concerned that there’s something wrong with me… down there.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Polaroid (My First Nude.)
Thanks so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Want to read all about Goth Boy’s story, right from the very beginning? You’ll find that right here.
You can also read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here:
