Would I have to start planning outfits around the tattoo like I plan for weather?
Historically, the length of my hair has been an accurate barometer of my emotional satisfaction. I’m in good company on this one.
After my divorce, my new hair life was not limited to the hair on my head. No longer concerned with anyone’s preference other than my own, I decreed that adults have pubic hair and so would I.
It’s one of my most cherished liberties, right up there with using scented detergent and eating dessert for dinner. Yes, Brazilians, Doritos and landing strips are relics I’m happy to have left behind.
I read about Betty Beauty, “color for the hair down there,” while waiting for the dentist or an oil change or some other place back issues of women’s magazines go to die. (It's not new, but so what?) It’s a product for women who prefer to be fully color coordinated, cover their grays or simply wish to try something novel. I fall into the third camp, and since I’m determined that my next haircut will be just a haircut (much the way that a cigar is sometimes just a cigar), my pubic garden is bearing the brunt of my neurosis.
I found Fun Betty (hot pink) on sale for $12.59, and sent the following email to my husband: "I will be dying my pubic hair pink and writing about it on the Internet. Don't judge me."
He was justifiably perplexed, the poor fellow.
Him: Why are you dying your pubic hair pink?
Me: Because I am trying anything once.
Him: But why?
Me: Just to see what it is like.
Him: You mean what life is like with pink pubic hair? What will change for you? Will you carry yourself differently? With an air of confidence?
Me: (Indignantly) I am not going to explain myself to you!
After issuing last-call for the commode, I took over to the bathroom to do the damn thing. The instructions call for skin/allergy test, but after I'd been so dramatic, my pride wouldn’t allow for a 48-hour delay. I skimmed over the “safe zone protection guide” and skipped ahead to the lightening step.
The process is a lot like bleaching one’s mustache...only lower. The bleach is applied with a mascara-like wand and is quite precise. The wand is also used for applying the dye, and petroleum jelly can be applied around the hairline to prevent staining.
Dying my short and curlies took a lot longer than I had anticipated. The lightening step took a full 30 minutes and the coloring took another 30. These times can be sped up by applying cellophane to the area and blow drying for 5-10 minutes.
I do not own a blow dryer and I was in a mood, so I played Sudoku on my phone until the battery got low, then wandered into the living room to complain about how profoundly boring the entire experience was.
Just how hot pink did I go? Very. The effect could be mimicked by donning the merkin pictured below:
In the days afer my experiment, my fuchsia-tinted pubes provided for a myriad of fun color combinations. A shock of pink goes with everything, I learned. It’s practically a neutral.
Dragging myself out of bed this morning, I wasn’t convinced I had the energy to lift my arms high enough to properly shampoo, let alone make it through an entire work day. Catching a glimpse of razzle-dazzle pubes in the bathroom mirror, my mood lightened. It’s hard to be sour when you’ve got hot pink pubic hair.
When I arrived at the office, I saw my co-workers started a list on the dry erase board. Paper towels. Swedish masseuse. Really? That’s the best you can do? In a fit of post dye job sassiness, I added a line item of my own.
My honey love remains nonplussed by my experiment. With a shrug he told me, “At a time like this, being single would come in handy. You’d have proper sampling of responses.” Perhaps.
Digging deep into my memory bank and limited imagination, I envision a tipsy make out session with a blurry male figure that wasn’t of interest a few drinks ago. It’s getting hot and heavy, and there’s an intense sense of urgency to undress. We struggle out of our clothes, then he spies my mound and stops cold, dumbfounded. “Why does it look like THAT?”
Even in my fantasies, I am a cynic.
Still, I’m pleased with my response to my insensitive, if imaginary, suitor. I throw his pants at him and push him toward the door. while screaming "Breast cancer awareness! Every heard of it, asshole?"