Why is Nobody Talking About Quarantine Pubes?

Bikini waxers beware.

At the start of lockdown, when we were naïve and cute, with our landing strips or delicate strawberry patches — or for some, our nothing at alls.

Oh my. . .

We collectively thought, “No probs. It’ll grow out a little more than usual. NBD.” We foolishly thought that quarantine would be temporary.

We already had our appointments booked for April 1st with Jenny. Or Sally. Or Tammy. All bikini waxers have a double consonant and a Y. Mine is named Kimmy.

April 1st turned to April 15th. Our forests grew wild and weird.

Some might have done the unthinkable. Did you? Did you. . .dun, dun, dun. . . shave it? Gasp! How 2005 of you. Let me guess? Was it Gillette? Or Schick? Please don’t tell me it was disposable.

Our sacred skin surrounding our folds of treasure has not seen those metal blades slicing and shearing our hallowed ground in eons.

The skin is now angry. It acts out in a bumpy, burning rage. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE???

Red welts and womps (not a word, I know, just using alliteration in this literary, high brow essay) spread across the pelvic bone making sharp turns down to the inner thighs. Bump. Welt. Womp. Bump. Welt. Womp.

Oh my.

Pain. Itching. Razor burn is no joke.

Nah, we’d much prefer our hair be torn out in violent strips covered in burning hot wax on our most sensitive parts. Strip by strip. Don’t forget my crack, Kimmy! Silly Kimmy.

Razors get chucked in the trash can. Good riddance, weapon of mass destruction.

We glance down at what we’ve done. Sure, the hair is gone. But we are left with blazing red, swollen skin, hot to the touch. Speckled with blood from unidentified wounds.

We smear Vaseline all over. Why? We don’t even know. Because we do, that’s why. We smear the cooling jelly all over our injured pride, mixing it with our tears.

We are careful not to use too much Vaseline. Because you never know what items will be out of stock at the grocer anymore.

“People should stay in their homes as long as possible,” we hear Sanjay say from our televisions. Oh, shut up. I suddenly miss Kimmy desperately. I long for her pain.

I wipe Vaseline all over my face for no reason whatsoever.

“Why are you so shiny, Mommy?” my son asks. Oh, honey. . . Mommy has made a terrible mistake.

“Get a grip!” we say to ourselves. How incredibly selfish is this behavior? Crying over pubic hair during a pandemic. Puh-leese. Assholes.

We let it grow. Run free, young pubes. Be you. Be the best you can be! Grow to your fullest potential.

Uh-oh. Careful what you wish for when you’re encouraging your pubes to do their thang.

They sprout, and twist, and curl and spread, expanding their possibilities. Just like we hoped for them. They reach their milestones sooner than expected. So big!

They grow at speeds so much greater than our stupid head hair.

The day comes (doesn’t it always?) when we reach down our sweatpants for a place to lay our weary hands.

Oh, what is this we find? A penis? Nope. A steak dinner? Wrong again.

We find the softest, sweetest, most incredibly wonderful sensation to the touch. We find our womanhood. We find how our creator intended us to be.

We find our bush. In all its glory. It has arrived. You can call me Eve. Hey Adam, sup?

It survived the quiet anticipation of Jenny/Tammy/Sally/Kimmy’s return in late March.

It survived the metal blade hacking murder crime scene of Schick the Dick in mid-April. Let’s rename that. It deserves an eerie London murderer’s nickname from the 1930s. How about . . . Nevermind. I’ve got nothing.

It survived when Mama said, “Run free. You shalth be wild and yonder, seed of my soul.” Or something. You know what I mean.

And here it is. Hello, love.

We touch it all day. Our kids catch us in the act during remote learning. “Mom, why is your hand down your pants again? Do you have an itch?”

Oh, just the opposite, my child. Just the opposite, we whisper.

We are so fascinated by its softness — its gossameriness. Yeah, that’s a real word. I entered “softness” in thesaurus.com. And now, gossameriness is my new favorite word. Sometimes I just say “goss” to be clever.

We protect it like a small hamster or chipmunk. Kitten? You pick. You pick and you protect it. Hard.

We ask our husbands/partners to feel it. To marvel at its newness, its capability.

“It’s like a handful of glorious cotton,” I remark in wonder.

“It’s more like a sasquatch,” my husband replies.

Men! Ha.

We shampoo it. We condition it. We use our potions and serums. Toddler hair bows look totes adorbs.

We blow-dry. Flat iron. Oh, weird! Keep the natural waves. They are beautiful.

We braid. We twirl. We make ponytails. Or when we are feeling extra playful, even pigtails.

We have time on our hands. Nothing but time. Nothing but sweet, goss time. How are you spending yours?

Please excuse me. I have to text Kimmy. I need to cancel all my appointments.

Forever.