WARNING: TMI enclosed. Please for all that is good do not read if:
You are family and it’s going to make you feel awkward to read about my vagina.
Your kids go to school with my kids and you’re going to be unable to look me in the eye at school drop off and make polite conversation when necessary.
You’re not interested in my writing.
I am too uncoordinated for this I thought as I tried to juggle the soap, my new electric bikini trimmer, and my labia, twisting and turning to get the best angle.
There is a learning curve on a new razor – I’d forgotten this in my loyal years of only buying one brand of razor.
But here I was trying to juggle the soap, a brand new electric razor, and my labia, while trying not to turn myself into ground meat.
It wasn’t working and I was starting to believe I actually needed four hands to do a good job.
My hands slipped and I narrowly missed dropping the razor on my foot trying to save my clitoris, while swearing vigorously.
“You ‘kay Mummy?” a little voice piped from just inside the bathroom door.
I pulled back the curtain just a little bit, poking my head around the corner.
“You are meant to be in bed.” I grumbled, looking at my smallest child who was pretending to be innocent. I’d given up morning showers as lost a few weeks ago after my two year old decided no one was to shower alone, not without her to splash in the water.
“No. No bedtime.” She looked at me gravely. “You ‘kay?”
“I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
“No. I sit here. You shower Mummy. I sit.”
And so she did, sitting on the bathroom mat, looking up at me.
I had a moment there where I thought seriously about giving up. My bikini line was barely trimmed and my two year old sat on the other side of a whisper thin shower curtain, no doubt wondering what the hell Mummy was doing.
But Internet, I am not a quitter. I am many things, but intelligent in the face of too great odds is not one of them.
I pulled the shower curtain back, hiding myself as I prepared to battle on, holding my soap firmly in one hand and my razor in the other. Trimming pubic hair never sounded so easy; sleek, shiny, and downright modern. Gone were the days of scissors and ingrown hairs – I had a shiny new toy and a promise it would do the job or my money back.
Bzzzzzzzzzz, I turned it on. Louder than a vibrator and less useful too, I set it to work.
It did not go well.
Between contorting myself into awkward positions (1: leg on the side of the bath. 2: the awkward cowboy. 3: oh god is this a yoga pose. 4: please just let it be over soon) and having to make small talk with a chatty toddler, it was … interesting, and rather like rubbing a fine cheese grater between my legs.
By the time I’d cut myself for the tenth time, I was sort of getting a handle on the angles needed and how much soap needed slathering on to make things work. (related: this soap makes great shaving soap.)
I rinsed off and washed my hair quickly, wincing a little as the shampoo hit my nether regions. There were cuts, and snicks and little driplets of blood beading everywhere.
It wasn’t pretty.
The toddler passed me a towel as I turned the water off, declaring herself to be “vewy helpful, look Mummy, I helping you” before running off as I dabbed gently at my labia and waddling to the bathroom cabinet in search of post-wax soothing wipes.
I haven’t been this cut up since I tried to shave my bikini line when I was 39 weeks pregnant.
I’m not sure I’m prepared to risk my labia again. Shiny new trimmer or not.
Personal care is hard.
Upside: I now have a reason to make an even better shaving soap and post-shave soothing gel. Excuse me while I go research some stuff.