Yes, yes. I know. “TMI”. Get over it. I’m having a crisis! Let’s deal with this.
When you’re a kid, there are certain things in the human development cycle that your parents have the foresight to prepare you for (if they are good parents). They warn you about the evils of wet dreams that may result in nocturnal emissions. Your dad may have beamed with pride when you began to point out the fledgling follicles that adorned your face like pepper flakes on a scrambled eggs. Perhaps your mother ran out to the store to purchase a bucket of Noxema to stave off the inevitable onslaught of teenage acne. And ff course, every girl remembers that terrible moment her underwear was unexpectedly stained red with Nature’s version of pungent tomato sauce in the middle of gym. Through it all, there was a book, a pamphlet, a prepared and well-rehearsed speech that either your parents or some beloved guardian delivered to you. It was scary, but you were ready and armed with knowledge.
So why didn’t these people prepare us for gray pubic hairs??? Why was there no pamphlet or pep talk to prepare me for this moment? The ancestors have failed me! I feel…I feel power draining from me…
I discovered the little gray hair quite by mistake. I have no idea how long it had been hiding between my legs, like a sneaky bandit, waiting to shock me with its presence. I was standing with my leg over the toilet shaving my lady bits with hubby’s clippers. He has three sets: one for his face; one to barber his hair; and one he has had to designate for lady bit trimming ever since the day I used his face clippers for what I just told you I was using them for.
Anytime you have a sharp, high voltage device near your delicate labia, it behooves you to take the utmost care when the situation necessitates that meeting. So there I was, bent over the opening of the toilet, fascinated by the sight of my coarse and curlies descending into the porcelain bowl, when I saw it. There were many things falling into the toilet from betwixt my legs, and “it” was not like any of the others.
Oh God. A gray hair!
I was horrified.
Marshall of course thinks it’s no big deal. He thinks it’s “cute”. Of course he would. He thinks the permanent keloid underneath my kangaroo belly – courtesy of four C-sections – is “cute”. I could have cut him when he offered his “support” with those words. One gray hair means that there are more to come. Like a scout ant in the sugar dish, it is never alone.
I have always wanted gray hair. When I was younger I thought it was distinguished and looked forward to turning 50. At 15 I imagined my future self. I’d have a slamming hot boy, a shock of gray hair on my right temple. Instead, I am approaching 37 eighty pounds overweight with one gray pubic hair on my vagina. What is this?!?
I have no other words. No analysis. No epiphanies to share with you. I believe this is a cruel joke that my parents, aunties and uncles have played on me. Everyone freely spoke about the pain of childbirth, the difficulty of keeping one’s marriage together and how hard they had to work to keep the lights on in your house. NO ONE has ever talked about the horror of discovering that your poontang is aging. It ain’t right. Some of you are dealing with this right now. You feel my pain. And for those of you who aren’t, laugh! Go ahead and laugh! When a gray pube sneaks up your butt, you’ll remember this post.