It’s the run-up to the annual pissing contest of love, otherwise known as Valentine’s Day, and this year it looks like a bunch of carnations and the promise of a blow job just ain’t going to cut it. No, apparently this year the only way to show your loved one that you love them is to purge yourself of pubic hair. Picture the conjugal nooks of Barbie Dolls and Action Men, if you’re wondering exactly what’s expected of you.
Yup, in 2013 it’s all about the gleaming knackers and silky flaps. Women’s mags are full of the fucking stuff. Just look at the press releases I’ve sicked up over in the last week. It’s pimping something called the LadyShape, a “tool for intimate topiary” and said release is entitled Perfect Pubes for Valentine’s Day. By all accounts “there’s no better way to catch your Valentine’s eye than to flash them with a cheeky love heart in your most precious place”. And the bollocks doesn’t stop there because it also promises to make “pubic hair something to be proud of”. All that does is make me want to weep tears of freshly distilled fury.
So while it’s saying that a minge mat is a source of pride when it’s been wrestled into shape, what it’s really screaming is that anything other than pubes in the shape of a bird of paradise is a source of staggering shame. Way to go LadyShape. Thanks for giving women a massive dollop of self-hate in time for the most romantic day of the year. There I was hoping for a card and a grope but instead I’ve got to deal with the self loathing that’s been sparked by catching sight of my underarms after getting out of the shower.
And don’t you men go thinking that you’ve been spared this post-modern witchcraft as Valentine’s Day hurtles towards us. Fuck no. See, the heinous trend of manscaping is putting just as much pressure on blokes as an entire Veet campaign is putting on women. The back, sack n crack are all willing wax fodder should you wish to prove that you love someone, although if I were approached by a man with a Biffins that gleamed I’d think he’d just finished a gruelling course of chemotherapy. Even men’s eyebrows aren’t a safe haven from the tweezer. Just look at JLS. They’re like the Four Horsemen of the tweezing Apocalypse.
Just what have pubes ever done to upset anyone? OK, so no man wants to go nose-deep in the trough of love just to get a flossing. And no woman wants to duel with a pork sword only to choke on a furball. But do we have to fall for this hairless crap? It’s as if the world has become sick of telling women that we’re ugly and need to pluck so it’s now turning on men and exhorting them to do the same. By the end of this bleak trend the Earth will be populated solely by people with the self-esteem of cold donkey spooge.
Apart from which, since when did ripping out our hair become a way to demonstrate our love? I thought true love is all about not having to change. I had no idea that you were supposed to take the person you were when you met and buff, pluck, tweeze, wax, smooth, groom, slim and de-frizz them until they look like Shame Warne being held hostage by a bug-eyed Liz Hurley. For once I’m chuffed to be 41 rather than 21. I consider myself to be a member of the last generation of Westerners who won’t need therapy after being faced with a crotch loaded with curlies.
By the time anyone’s gotten to this age they aren’t only fully aware that humans grow hair but they’re also too desperate for a shag to care about exactly how much hair the other half has. As long as it’s not cascading from the bikini line in ringlets or hosting a party of scrotal hamsters no one gives a shit. For younger generations, though, pubic hair is enduring the same fevered eradication as Small Pox. Forget about hair removal being pervasive amongst no one other than porn stars. By 2023 even the local bloody lollipop man will have an arse that shines like an offshore lighthouse.
That’s why I’m exhorting every lucid adult to take a stand by growing out their coiffured pubes in time for Valentine’s Day. The only way we can wrest back control of our panicking underparts is by presenting them to our loved ones in a proud state of overgrowth, not even a hint of mortification in our voices as we proclaim “Chew on this!”.
I’ll be growing my pubic mound until it resembles a stranded hedgehog, nurturing mutton chops down the length of my thighs and encouraging my shins to look like a golf course rough. And I live in hope that men will do the same, recreating rainforests over their scrotums and chest hair that would make Magnum P I’s torso look like a licked dinner plate.
So for Valentine’s 2013 forget the bunches of roses. Instead, show someone you love them by giving them a bush.