Body Hair and Lou Reed

“Holly came from Miami, F.L.A.

Hitch-hiked her way across the USA

Plucked her eyebrows on the way

Shaved her legs and then he was a she

She says, Hey babe

Take a walk on the wild side

She said, Hey honey

Take a walk on the wild side

Candy came from out on the Island

In the backroom she was everybody's darlin'

But she never lost her head

Even when she was giving head

She says, Hey babe

Take a walk on the wild side

Said, Hey babe

Take a walk on the wild side

And the colored girls go doo do doo do doo do do doo…” Lou Reed

I heard this song again recently. It’s a true classic. For some reason it always makes me think about body hair. Call me crazy. The lyrics send me straight down the melancholy hair path. Hair, hair and more hair. Hair loss; shaven hair; plucked hair; waxing one’s hair; a full head of hair… Okay. I think you get my drift, yeah?

Just so you know I’m an a la carte person when it comes to hair on my body. I like my legs, arm pits and eyebrows smooth and preferably waxed; clean as a whistle. I like my bush to be slightly trimmed; maintaining some order below, but the area covering my pubis mons should be full and hearty, full enough so it glistens when it’s wet. Wet from stepping out of the shower, or a pool, or hmmm… dang! I just can’t think of any other reasons my bush would be wet. Huh? It’s Monday; my brain’s a little slow.

I’ve had my bush waxed before; I was in a Brazilian state of mind, I suppose. Ouch! It hurts so bad; really bad. I kept waiting for the pleasure to follow the excruciating pain, but that failed to happen. I was to find pleasure in the fact that my coochie was bare, and as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I felt that I looked pre-pubescent; attracting the likes of pedophiles. Or something even worse: Smooth Jazz listeners; smooth coochie; smooth Jazz, there seemed to be parallelism.

Eeek!

I was hysterical. I wandered the streets of my neighborhood asking everyone I’d come in contact with, “Where’s my bush? Have you seen my bush? I think I’ve gone and lost my bush!”

I was crying out for help, you know; sending a bush SOS.

Someone finally thought a bush intervention was necessary; in retrospect I was a bit out-of-control. My friends were so sympathetic of my loss, repetitively telling me, “Neve, for the love of bush… yours will come back to you, just is patient.”

Thank heavens for my good friends. They were correct. It took awhile; prickly little devil came back to me in pieces; teasing me with a hair here, and morsel there. It was as painful as having the damn thing waxed off. Ouch! The memory still stings.

Anyway, how do handle the hair on your body? Do you shave a little here, pluck a stray there, and how often? Is your body hair a ritualistic maintenance nightmare? Or do you just say, “ahhh… fuck it!” and let it all hang out and go hippie-style …? You know I want to know.

The water-color above can be purchased by selecting here.