OK. So, it’s a week later and I’m paying the price.
Do you remember when Stella booked me in for the Brazilian? We argued all the way to the salon, but I still had it done. What really cheesed me off was the embryo that performed the procedure. I don’t know why I don’t like children fiddling with my pubes, but I just don’t. Well, OK, I might be exaggerating (Who? Me?); she was probably 20-ish. I could feel her pity for an old woman who is supposed to be fifty-is-the-new thirty; it might be, but not where grey is concerned, as Bella thoughtfully pointed out here.
After the beautician snipped off the Rasta locks with a pair of scissors (he wouldn't have approved!), she started the precision surgery. Only it wasn't so precise - one movement too many and the result was wonky. She therefore had to tidy up the other side. What with one thing and another, the Brazilian turned into a Hollywood.
Stella often has them she’s told me. But, I just don’t get it. At first, every time I went to the loo, I looked down there to try and understand the aesthetics of it, but, no, no, no, it just doesn’t work for me. As a grown woman, that is. Fine for a six year old. And frankly, dare I say it -- well, I might as well because I can't be the only person on the planet to whom this has occurred -- isn't there something mildly dodgy about a man who prefers this sort of thing on his woman?
Over the week, however, the plucked floofie took on a new dimension. No longer the prepubescent mons pubis, more plucked chicken.
And don't tell me you can't see the similarity! I know you can. Erm? You can, can't you? Or, is it just me? Anyway, never, ever again!
Oh, and by the way, to those of you who either do this regularly or are considering having it done, look what look what I found. I like this Sarah Hughes woman!