Plucked Off

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. 

Yyyyyyyeeeeeeeeoooooowwwww! 

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!  

I Should Have Said No

The doorbell rang: I was still in my PJs. To answer or not to answer – that was the question. I peeked out from behind the dining room window curtain.  Stella. This was quarter to nine on a Saturday morning for God’s sake, and I was neither mentally nor physically prepared for such an untimely visitation.


"I can see you," she said, "Open the door."

She was in her running gear and strode straight past me into the kitchen; I closed the door and schlepped after her. She deposited the usual two hot cross buns in the toaster and switched the kettle on.

"I’ve been thinking. What you have to do," she said, “is change your attitude.” I saw her wince as she spotted me wiping away the Exxon Valdez-like oil slick that was formerly my mascara sliming down my face. Weeell, I don’t care - it’s my weekend, my face, I can do what I want in my own house. Neh, neh, neh, so there. Who invited her anyway?

 “What attitude is that then, Stella?” You’d have thought that by now, what with the coiffure, threading and lasering, she’d be satisfied, but no.

“You’re not going on enough dates, and I know the reason for that. If you were in a Constant State of Readiness (What is this? The D Day landings?) you’d feel better about yourself and be open to more flirtation and suggestion. You’d feel clean, fresh, fragrant, most importantly prepared." I wondered if she'd overdosed on this; she was displaying something of the rabid evangelist in her missionary proselytizing ; or horror of horrors,Tony Robbins.

I must reiterate - Is there anything more annoying than someone who imagines she has some deep insight into the depths of your psyche purely on the basis of having attended a course on shoving candles in people's ears? Perhaps she thinks with a little wax removal, she can slide through the tympanic membrane into the eustachian tube and peer into all my defence mechanisms.  

“So I’ve booked you in for a Brazilian. “ she said.

WHAT? I hadn't seen that coming. “Stella,” I said, “I don’t need a Brazilian. I am perfectly happy with all current depilatory arrangements in my nether regions, thanks ever so much."

“Yes, you do need one.  It’s very unattractive to have stragglers."

‘STRAGGLERS?! I BEG YOUR PARDON! I’ll have you know I’m very tidy when it comes to down there.” Well, I am - but in a sort of 1960s hippy meets post-modernist hommage-to-Haile Selassie-and-his-Rastafarian-acolytes kind of way. 

What can I tell you – sometimes I’m bored on those cold dark winter evenings, and it beats macramé by a long chalk.

"Bette" she said. "Come on – you’ve made so many positive steps in the right direction. It’s a challenge." She makes it sound like it’s one of those A Hundred Things To Do Before You Die lists. How anybody can compare witnessing the majesty of the Grand Canyon to having your pubes ripped out is a mystery to me. Oh merde – now I’m going to have this on my brain all day.

“Anyway, come on. Stop bibbling on," she said, “and get dressed. First the Brazilian, then the Ploughman’s.”

Eh? What’s one of those? I’ve never heard of one of those. Must google. Is it like those kids who have furrows shaved into their heads? Ooer, can you really do that on your floofie too? Well, I never.

She looked at me like this. 

‘The Ploughman’s, you knobhead. The Ploughman’s you promised me for letting you use my story.

Oh I seeeeee!

Such language though! From that I instantly deduced she’d been spending quality time with her children. Well, as you can imagine, I thought her name-calling quite unnecessary. After all, the juxtaposition of two adjectival nouns (or is that noun adjunct thingies?) in afore-described manner would allude to a similar taxonomic origin, donchya think? Or quelque chose comme ca. Is there an English teacher dans la maison?

Anyway, the upshot of all this, my dear followers, is that (foolishly) I succumbed.