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I work in a studio shared only with other women, and it is a place where all sorts of issues are discussed openly and without restraint. For us there’s very little that is considered taboo and raucous laughter is often the norm. Recently we have been finding the subject of pubic hair utterly fascinating.
I blame myself for this dialogue. My ongoing flirtation with going au naturel has been the cause of much hilarity and ridicule. Since getting my bush back, I am increasingly aware that, pubic hair, as opposed to a lack thereof, is causing quite a fuss.
Every other newspaper I read seems to have an article dedicated to the styling of one’s mons pubis, and everyone from A-list celebrities to medical practitioners are getting in on the action, and offering advice on good grooming.
When I made a conscious decision to stop shaving (as opposed to merely slacking off between relationships) I was pretty sure that the bush was all but extinct. In the various gyms that I’ve been a member of and one beach in particular that I’ve sunbathed naked on, it’s been years since I last saw even the slightest hint of residual pubic adornment. So when actress, Gwyneth Paltrow, confessed that she too ‘rocked a 70s vibe’ downstairs, I was pleased to discover that I was in good company. A few months later, proof that the bush is officially cool, came in the form of a new health manual by Cameron Diaz which has a whole section dedicated to the importance of keeping your ‘lovely curtain’.
The state of our nether regions is clearly quite a contentious issue, and it seems that everyone has an opinion.
I first retired my razor three years ago for a series of self-portrait nude studies. I wanted the images to have a timeless classical feel, so to better achieve this, and in an attempt to step to one side of clichéd porn (where the girls are always shaven), I allowed my own bush to grow.
Around the same time, I had also started to see a policeman on a casual basis. After our third or fourth date I felt compelled to raise the subject of the exotic topiary in my pants. My thinking was that this might give him time to rehearse some suitable response.
I need not have bothered. No amount of rehearsal could have prepared him for the trauma of seeing me naked, with hair, and we both fell about laughing at his genuine shock. At random intervals during sex he would pause, roll his eyes as if summoning courage to continue, even sometimes pretend to retch, and mutter something about doing this, “For England…”
He would send me desperate messages before our dates, begging me to remove the fuzz. I never did, and it still amuses me to recall him waving goodbye whilst hacking up an imaginary hairball.
To read the full interview, you can order the launch issue from The Quite Delightful Project HERE.
