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Sometimes
You Just Gotta Let Your Hair Down
In my case, it was suggested by my girlfriend, Amy, whom I'll call Linda here, to protect Amy's identity. One day, Linda was doing a little work down South, if you catch my drift, and happened to say something along the lines of, "You know, if there was less jungle down here, it would make for easier access and I could provide a lot more pleasure." Linda's words created mixed feelings in me. On the one hand, the phrase, "I could provide a lot more pleasure" was one that I generally embraced. On the other hand, the prospect of scissors or razors within inches of my scrotal neighborhood left me rather apprehensive, to say the least. Somehow I sensed that that day would not be a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Linda picked right up on my mixed feelings, and offered to do the trimming herself. While touched by her gesture, I immediately recalled the Biblical story, "Samson and Delilah." If I let Linda Scissorhands come near me for the trimming, would I end up losing my strength afterwards? And then, of course, you know what would happen. That's right, just like in the Bible -- the Philistines would capture me, gouge out my eyes, bring me to Gaza, imprison me, and put me to work grinding grain for the remainder of my days. All because Linda wanted easier access. Of course, that was just my initial reaction. When I stopped hyperventilating and thought about the matter rationally, I started seeing things from Linda's point of view. A) It wasn't really fair, each time we had sex, to expect her to hack through the jungle in search of the Lost Ark. B) Considering all the plucking and shaving and waxing and lasering women do, shouldn't men be expected to occasionally share some of the grooming burden? Nah. But then I remembered Linda mentioned it could mean better sex for both of us. I'm not an unreasonable man. With some trepidation, I agreed. The fateful day arrived. I may have imagined more trauma than was actually there. Still, the priest stopped by to administer last rites. I said I was Jewish, but the priest said it was the best they could do on short notice. The warden brought by my requested last meal -- sausages and plums. Male protesters outside held signs imploring the governor to stop the madness. I was given the opportunity to say any final words. I took the high road and said, "That's one small snip for man, one giant trim for womankind." The warden had thoughtfully provided appropriate background music for the occasion -- a selection of sensitive songs, including, "Cuts Like a Knife," "The First Cut is the Deepest," and "Hair." My father, brothers, and male friends attempted to be strong, but several were choking back tears. Finally, Linda approached, with a scissors, sideburn trimmer, and a black hood over her head. The music stopped. Resigned to my fate, I dropped my pants. It was time. I couldn't look. For the next several minutes, all I heard was the sound of the snipping of the scissors, and the buzz of the trimmer. During this time, my life passed before my eyes -- which was upsetting because not only wasn't it that exciting, but it also contained a surprising number of commercials. Those things are everywhere now. I realized, too, that I was no doubt the first male in the Miller family, throughout its history, to be undergoing a pubichairectomy. Or is it a bushectomy? No doubt my male ancestors were holding their crotches in pain as they turned over and over in their graves. Finally, Linda said, "Okay, done." I slowly opened one eye just a bit and gazed down. There was no pubic hair in sight. I gasped, then opened the eye wider, stupidly hoping that the increased field of vision would reveal the missing hair. None. I opened the other eye. Still none. Linda admitted that she might have removed a tad more than she'd planned. "A tad more"? I realized it would be at least two years before I'd be able to remove my clothing in any gym locker room without guys pointing and laughing. My scrotal area looked like a bald baby eagle's head wedged between two eggs. For the love of God, I looked like child porn! Over the next week, as I walked around with my new summer cut, I sensed that people somehow knew. Women I passed on the street smiled and seemed to mouth a silent "thank you." Men looked at me sympathetically, as if to say, "We feel your pain." From dogs, however, I got nothing. "Hey, you have us fixed and you're worried about a little trim? Excuse us while we pee in your general direction." I realized the dogs were right. I wasn't losing my strength. Or my eyes. I wouldn't have to grind grain for the remainder of my days, despite my last name being Miller. So my penis looked a little strange out front and center, without its traditional pubic garnishment. Sex was better. Linda was happier. I was happier. As it turned out, what I'd thought was a very big deal wasn't that big a deal after all. Like many things we fear. Since
then, I'm proud to say I've become a regular pubic trimmer. I don't,
naturally, remove as much as Linda did. Linda's gone now, by the
way. Not dead; it just didn't work out. For other, non-pubic reasons.
And though I'm not with someone presently, I keep in practice. In
fact, I've become something of a trimming artiste. Having taken
history and art classes in college, I decided to incorporate my
knowledge, so I've trimmed my pubic hair into a fairly decent representation
of the Mount Rushmore presidents. I've also done it as Marcel Duchamp's
"Nude Descending a Staircase," Picasso's "Guernica,"
and when I make a mistake, I just say it's a Jackson Pollock. I
guess the point is, life and beauty and love and art can be everywhere,
even in your pants.
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There
comes a time when a man must make perhaps the most important decision
of his life regarding his romantic partner. No, I'm not talking
about engagement, marriage, moving in together, buying a house,
or even having a baby. This is far more personal, far more potentially
traumatic. I'm referring, of course, to the cutting, shaving, or
trimming of one's own pubic hair. That's right, I agreed to it.
And as you might imagine, it wasn't my initial idea. Nor is it most
guys'. This is going to be hard for a lot of women to believe, but
generally, guys don't wake up one morning, look down, and say to
themselves, "Gosh, I'm awfully bushy; this might be the perfect
day for a trim." Okay, maybe gay guys do; they seem to take
more careful care of their appearance. But for the rest of us straight
slobs, the idea to do so usually originates from the gentler half
of the relationship.
