A Short History of My Short-Hairs

It’s a fact of life. Everyone has it. Some people try to hide it by getting rid of it. Some people try to make it look more attractive by having it cut or waxed or even shaved into pretty shapes like hearts and stars, but the fact of the matter is that almost every person has pubic hair. Some have an abundance, some are more sparse, but pubic hair is a great human equalizer.

There is probably some evolutionary reason for us having pubic hair, although I have no idea what it is. I also don’t know much about pubic hair or the answer to popular questions like, “Does the carpet match the drapes?”

I wish I could write some facts about this stuff here; it would make a good introduction; however I can’t . . . The only thing I can provide here is a short history of my introduction to pubic hair and a short history of me and my own pubic hair.

I rack my brain trying to remember when that first hair sprouted out of my crotch and I knew that I was close to becoming pubescent, but I really don’t remember. I do remember the first time I saw pubic hair on a woman, and I bet that most people would guess that it was my mother. Well, it was not. It was much more traumatic.

To this day, thinking about this event rattles me. I was very young and taking swimming lessons at the YMCA. One of those horrible women who love to walk around the locker room in the nude came into the showers while I was showering in my bathing suit. She was a redhead and promptly removed her bathing suit, and her daughter removed hers. I stared at the mother, in awe of her huge red bush. Then I looked at her daughter, also a redhead, and about my age, and her bare little vagina. The sight of the two of them was so confusing to me.

You see, my family was not a “nude” family, and I was always glad for this. But looking at this woman and noticing her . . . she was fat, had rolls, a huge stomach pouch, breasts that dangled to her stomach, and then this . . . this hair, all over her “flower” as I was taught to call it as a kid.

It was disgusting. It looked like Bozo was right there, caught between her legs. I did not understand why she had hair there. I still to this day curse women who walk around the fucking locker room naked. I think I would have been less traumatized by walking in on two men buttfucking in the showers than to see this saggy-sacked monstrosity wash out her big red bush.

The next time I saw pubic hair, it was my mother’s, when she was douching, and it was a lot less unnerving. I remember being way more fascinated by the big bright orange douche bottle than the fact that she had hair down there. Plus her pussy hair was brown, not red . . . far less disturbing for me. And it was a lot less. But I digress.

I want to start talking about the history of my own pubic hair, but there are so many experiences that are coming to mind now that I am fixating on pubic hair, my mind is being flooded with them and it is hard to concentrate.

Puberty hit me late. I remember sprouting a few hairs but always not really wanting a whole lot. I never wanted to look like that clown-crotch at the YMCA. From then on, I hated wooly crotches, although to this day (for the most part) mine remains hairy. But that is more out of laziness than anything else. If it were up to me, I would have a finely waxed vagina all of the time.

When I was about eighteen, my friend told me that she and her boyfriend had both completely shaved their genitals, thereby making their sex so much more amazing. She told me to try it. Boy, that was a mistake. They didn’t explain to me how I was supposed to get rid of the hair, and it turned really messy.

I went into my mother’s bathtub and just took the disposable razor that had been sitting on the tub since I was fifteen to my crotch (my mom had stopped buying disposable razors after she had chemotherapy and her armpit hair went away forever).

So there I was trying to scrape this dull blade across my crotch. I got a bunch of hairs stuck in it, and washed them out, and repeated this over and over. Soon, the whole tub was filled with little curly hairs. I had no idea how to get out of this one. The last talk I wanted to have with my mom is the “I see you’re shaving your pubes” talk.

I tried to wrangle all the little hairs up and shove them all into the drain, but it was way too hard. Pubes have a special way of sticking to the wall of a tub as if to say, “Hey everyone! Look, someone in here tried to shave her cootch!” (This has happened to me on more than one occasion.)

My snatch ended up looking like a blind man took a razor to a cat. There were tufts of uneven hair next to splotches of baldness. It was a complete mess. I just hoped that no one would notice until it grew back. The worst part about it though was the fucking itching. It wouldn’t stop, so I was constantly scratching my crotch, obviously looking like I had some sort of VD. I just kept scratching and waited for it to grow back.

This sort of set the pace for me shaving my pubic hair. I’m horrible at it. I try to do it at times, but it never turns out looking how I want it to. I know I could get it waxed, but there’s something wrong with that to me. One day I might. As a result, my bush is usually all there for the most part. I’d like it nicely groomed, but I’m too lazy to go all out.

It’s obvious that I have an above-average amount of pubic hair. I had another locker-room tragedy in high school, and that, coupled with my earlier YMCA trauma, helps me never to be too self-conscious about the amount of pubes I possess.

My two best friends were twins who also subscribed to the repulsive “walk around the locker room naked” philosophy. These girls had pubes down to their knees. Whenever I get down on myself thinking my pubic hair is out of control, I just think of these twins and realize that at least it is not as unruly as theirs, and at least I don’t walk around locker rooms naked, and then usually I’ll cut it with scissors.

I generally don’t take a razor to it anymore. Like I said, when I do that, it usually looks like a rat who has been attacked.

Maybe somebody out there likes that.