Crotch Care

My word! I had no idea that my undercarriage had such exciting bloggy potential; it seems that the UK ladies are in the minority with their tweezing prowess. Just so the rest of the world don’t think us utterly provincial, let us take a quick spin through the alternatives, just to prove we know about them.

Hair removing cream

Nice in principal, but HFF wifey is deadly allergic in practice.


Epilators Smepilators. They’re just a big bunch of tweezers on a stick.


Hmmmm. Yeah, I have one of these thingies. For the first 4 hours after I bought it, I electrolysed fervently. At which point I read the information manual, and realised that even when I’d killed the active follicles, they had hundreds of little buddies per square inch, all waiting dormant, ready to spring up in sprightly fashion. At which point I decided life was simply too short.


The disposables are my weapon of choice for leg hair, but the thing with my follicles à la upper bikini area is that they seem prone to getting excited at the least little thing (in marked opposition to the ones produced by my ovaries) and can turn a nasty bright red if provoked. I then look as if I’ve tried slash and burn agriculture, which is not such a good look on a groin. The blasted sprouting things are back again in a couple of days or so, ruining your smooth finish, noticeably so if you are blessed with lustrous thick dark hair.

Also, blades wielded in haste around one’s lower bits can produce unhappy results. When I suddenly (and correctly) decided that my Delhi belly was premature labour, I was attempting to relax the pain away in the bath. Realising that even another false alarm would necessitate a baring-of-bits at the hospital, I swiftly snatched the razor and made a couple of rapid swipes around the target zone. You can see where this is going, yes? A fumbling combination of insufficient reach, rising panic and my blind-summit belly resulted in a painful and rather embarrassing small gash. But not to worry, because the bloody big tear I incurred a few hours later in front of a roomful of intently watching people put it all nicely into perspective.


Ahhh, waxing. Happy memories. Psyching yourself for the big pull.

When the hospital kindly lent me their oldest battleship of a breast pump, it became apparent that it had only one setting: violent. For several weeks I sat on the edge of my bed at 3.30am, holding the suction cup hovering over my breast and taking deep breaths whilst repeating the holy mantra in a fervent undertone: Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. Final deep breath, apply suction cup. Suppress scream of agony as tortured nipple shoots 2 inches down the tube the moment an air seal is achieved.

I’m shuddering with the memory. My nipples have crawled away and hid under my armpits in terror. The pain-parallels between waxing and the malevolent Medela Lactina were startling. And since my pumping agony (Hire a Symphony, girls. Or an Ameda Elite. Trust me on this: they’re worth the money.) ended, my wax strips have resided in the cupboard undisturbed. Can’t seem to get excited about them, somehow.

I have to confess that since I have discontinued use of the wax, my lower areas have become a little more… festooned than they used to be. Tweezers can only take you so far, I agree. But hey, I’ve been married 4 years and have a 10 month old baby. It’s normal to not find your arse with an atlas at this point, surely?



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