A day by the pool — feet up, book out, suncream on. Picture perfect peace. Except for when I stand up to get a drink, or cool off in the pool, or nip to the loo. Bubble burst. All thanks to the bikini and the sudden, terrifying thought that my whole vagina might be hanging out.
It’s never happened before and I’ve never seen it happen to anyone else but, you can’t take any chances. The fear remains. Never mind the other constant worries about if the label is sticking out or, worse, my nipple. Nevermind the fact I’m behind on upkeep (God forbid) and my pubic hair might be on show since I’m too afraid to get a wax abroad. And even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to thanks to razor rash.
I wonder what men do with all the extra time they aren’t spending bent over in the shower, wielding a razor like a weapon without training, attempting not to slice open the most sensitive part of their body. Perhaps this is the reason they are all CEOs and breadwinners. It’s all in the extra fifteen, thirty minutes a week they just walk straight out the door.
Class analysis of Molly-Mae’s 24 hours is all well and good, but we should all be in uproar about the extra subjugation women face simply because of hair. And how much time we lose to getting rid of it.
All inclusives should offer discounts to women because, yes, drinks are unlimited, but I’ve got several hours less opportunity to order them. Instead of being at the bar, I’m looking at myself in the mirror from every angle, mostly bent at the waist, head between my legs, trying to work out exactly how much of my bush will be on display if I lie on my front to make the most of the sun.
Last year I discovered a high waisted bikini, also known as a god send. It covered just above my belly button and never turned into a thong. Obviously I managed to leave it behind when packing to travel around South East Asia for six months, and everyday I’m now faced with the impact of that loss. Bloating, fishing my bottoms out from between my cheeks, the easy comparison to every other bikini body next to me, the list goes on.
No one else seems to be frantic with worry about their belly or bush. Their bums are pert and spot free, on full display thanks to the string bikinis that are all the rage. Their heads bob along to music, their hands flick the pages of a book, their sunglasses perch effortlessly on their crown, holding back lush, frizz free hair. I hate them.
I am them, a sister in arms.
The arms of course being a Venus 9 blade razor from Superdrug with replaceable heads.
Surely they have the same fear. We just aren’t talking about it.
It’s not like at home, when you can rush into your roommate’s room and ask if your armpit flab is hanging out over the bandeaux and face no judgment. Presumably strangers wouldn’t take well to an icebreaker about pubes. I’m not going to test that theory since I’m trying to make friends. I have confidence it would hold anyway.
So, I’m left alone, mind always half wandering to my bikini. How it’s sat on my hips, my bum, my boobs. A cage of my own design, blueprints borrowed from the male voyeur in my mind who, in turn, was taught by 00’s porn and waxed, dolphin-smooth vaginas. I wonder if the man behind the minge knew back then that, decades later, he'd be ruining my pool day? That he’d lead to a boom in waxing, women on their backs with their legs open, not waiting for a fucking but a quick, forceful rip.
Despite the claims of empowerment out there, I don’t feel like a feminist when I’m making small talk with my knees next to my ears. All for the sake of a stress free holiday. A week where I’m not thinking about vaginas like some over eager thirteen year old boy.
Except even then, if I was bare and beautiful, I’m sure I'd still find something else to panic over.
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