Every morning in the shower, I am reminded that I am a mammal when I shave my legs. I don't necessarily enjoy this ritual, but I succumb to it. I pluck and shape my brows, I shave my legs. Yes, I am a mammal trying to erase one of my mammalian traits.
I have thought about taking one week off, about not shaving my legs for more than one day. A sort of rebellion of sorts.
I don't shave down there. Never have, probably never will.
When I was in college, I dated a man who more than anything else wanted to shave me down there. He was obsessed with the removal of pubic hair, though I happened to notice that he did not shave himself down there. I think he wanted to be my barber more than he wanted to be my lover. Strange to me, and so we parted ways, without him claiming any of my hair. Probably the first person I had known who had any type of sexual fixation. Alas, he would not be the last.
Don't get me wrong – I know several of my blogging friends shave down there – even heard it called a Brazilian shaving (or waxing). If my hairdresser asked me about a Brazilian shaving, I would never have thought . . . . Just not for me. I even had an affair with a man who called me his NBV (naturally bushy vagina).
I have also said I will not color my hair, but at the first few strands of grey, I am re-thinking that stance. The strands are not noticeable to most – my husband can't even see them half the time I show him. Guess I am somewhat vain.
My hubbie, the sweetie that he is, says he doesn't mind my hair down there. "After all", he contends, "are not breasts a mammalian trait as well?"
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