It had never occurred to me that I was supposed to groom my pubic hair until fooling around in the back of a Ford Focus with a particularly unwoke boyfriend at age My mother, who carefully instructed me on the art of shaving my legs, never explicitly told me it was something I needed to do elsewhere.
In my conservative small town, I had just one sexually active friend, who didn't get into the topic as she recounted her lurid hookup stories before choir practice. Only when I was about 18 and making out with my new boyfriend, was I brought into the know about the comparative neglect of my undercarriage.
Things started heating up, and it was hard to miss his not-so-subtle grimace when he was surprisingly greeted by Bob Ross when he was expecting Pamela Anderson. I still remember feeling so small and unattractive as he tugged at my underwear, like I had missed some giant memo. Why had no one told me that I needed to de-frizz before a date?
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Was everyone in the world shaving their pubic hair except for me? Soon after, I was shaving every other day from armpit to ankle, walking out News bikini line accident the shower like a glossy seal just emerging from the ocean.
But it did the trick: I was hairless, confident, and maybe only slightly itchy. We broke up a few months later.
Kim Kardashian Is Sexualizing Motherhood. But pool season had arrived, and the razor habit stuck.