To shave or not to shave

It’s been a long time since I last shaved my legs.  Not long enough that dinosaurs might have been roaming the earth but long enough that I knew it was going to take more than one razor and quite a lot of bending over. I’m not entirely sure what possessed me to even consider tackling anything below waist height last Thursday evening when I could have been reading Ulysses or collecting nail trimmings to make them into a sweet little doll to sell on Ebay.  Whatever the reason, it was on a cold, dark winter’s night that I found myself stood in a bath full of nature’s delightful nectar that is our life source and provider of many fun sports and other things not mentioned because they’re just too rude.

Any sensible person would have washed in the water first and not gone straight for the razor.  If, like me, you suffer with hypotension, you will know that bending over whilst standing in hot water, are a recipe for disaster.  I’d like to know why and how any sane person can do this on a daily basis.  Do you actually do it for yourself or because your partner likes it ‘that way?’

In hindsight, doing it in the bath was not the best decision I’ve ever made.  Picture the scene if you will…what looked like I’d just plucked the hairs from some wild animal and then fired them around the edge of the white bath from a paint gun.  I was not only standing in water floating with monstrous black hairs but I was surrounded by an army of millions of the little devils, all waiting patiently to be removed and to block my very tiny plug hole.

It took what seemed like forever.  The reality was more like 26 minutes with brief intervals to lift my head and recover my falling blood pressure.  It’s worth noting at this point that I was unlikely to be revealing my legs to anyone other than my bed sheets but I’d started so I had to finish.

I was slightly confused as to where the leg hair started and ended and where my lady garden might have bordered the said leg hair and in truth, the only way of finding out was to wait for the inevitable itch/scratch cycle that comes from said preening of hairy wotnots.

I am in a minority of women who likes to keep things wild.  I’ll admit to spending an age being on the other side of the fence when I could actually be bothered to gaze between my thighs with my glasses falling from my nose as I tried to navigate the undulations of my womanhood.  Pubic hair grows back quicker than you might imagine and within hours the ‘inevitable itch/scratch cycle would kick in and I’d resort to ice cubes and airing my snatch in the hope it would abate for long enough to allow me to float gracefully through the aisles of the supermarket without the need to scratch my snatch.

On a positive note, I came through it mostly unscathed and without a single drop of blood.  I was so cocky about this that I immediately set-to with my foot file in the hope of smoothing my ankles and feeling half a stone lighter.  Who in their right mind uses what looks like a miniature cheese grater on their own flesh? I can attest to the fact that when it slips, and it did, that it hurts like buggery and cuts deep.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I had just been able to hop in the bath to wash away the Merlot coloured seepage but not wanting to step into the hairy shallows, I slapped on some bog roll and set about emptying the bath and releasing the remains of the wild animal.

I’ll definitely not be repeating this process any time soon but for one night, my legs were smooth, my plug hole was hairy and I felt a little less than half a stone lighter.

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