Dear Dating Mom:
I am dating a guy who loves a hairy woman. He likes hair on legs, underarms, and the vagina. My problem is that I am the total opposite. I have been removing hair on my body since the age of 12 and I really don't think that I will feel sexy looking like King Kong.
Confused Kuntry Girl
Dear Confused Kuntry Girl:
Okay, I have to ask, what is this guy’s number and does he like 45-year-old women with short legs and a deep hatred for those who refuse to use their turn signals?
Seriously, do you have any idea the time you’d save going out with a guy like this? Never mind the money and the continual blows to your self esteem.
Think about it.
I remember when a waxing lady of mine held up a strip of paper covered in my pubic hair and as loud as she could, yelled out, “You look like monkey girl!”
It took me weeks to convince myself that in fact I was still sexy and not just on the inside, never mind the injuries I sustained as I tried to climb out the bathroom window because I refused to walk back out to the main area where the front door to the place had been situated by some asinine building designer who clearly never had anyone ever publicly refer to them as “monkey girl.”
Which brings me to the time I went to have my moustache removed. This would be the moustache I didn’t even know I had until another waxing lady informed me of such and recommended I have it taken off immediately. Typical me, I just presumed she’d say anything to make an extra buck until I called a very dear friend of mine, later that day, to tell her what had happened, only to be told that in fact I did have a moustache. What I did NOT have was a friend brave enough to tell me and who subsequently let me walk around for years thinking I looked like a real woman and not Fidel Castro.
As a result, instead of waxing, my sister recommended I have the thing “threaded off." Have you heard of this form of medieval torture? Actually, I kid. I could tell it would be fun when the woman next to me stopped crying long enough to pay the girl, only to then continue to sob and swear that from that point on she was going to stick with her mustache, and if her husband didn’t like it, he could suck it.
Then there is the three-inch scar that runs down the front of my left shin, which I got when I tried to shave with one of those disposable razors. Suffice it to say, I did a lot more jigsaw puzzles and a lot less dating for quite some time after that one.
Do you see what I'm saying here? Put down the razor and, as it says in that very famous Christmas song, "Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow."
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