Grey Expectations: The Tale of two pubic hairs

Disclaimer: If you’re part of my family or friends or know me in real life in any capacity, see me at school drop off, might run into me randomly at the supermarket somehow, work with my husband or just generally think I look familiar and you may have met me once,  you should probably stop reading this post at this point because it contains more information about my nether regions than you probably need know about.Knowing full well that not a single person has stopped reading [sadistic little fuckers]… don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Yep, you got it, this post is about my golden palace, my lady garden, my ber-nude-a triangle if you will.

The short and curly of it; I found a grey pube.

That’s right. Yep. That is a thing that happened.

Hard to believe, I know.

Young, nubile, spritely, forever young, 35 year old me, who still wears graphic tees and converse high tops in a non ironic way, who bought not one set of tickets to One Direction but TWO, because the second lot were closer to the stage and the possibility of being besmirched with a hallowed droplet of the glistening, salty yet somehow sweet, sweet sweat of 22 year old Harry Styles was too much to pass up… Me, who speaks in fluent emoji and uses hashtags in spoken conversation and can have full text message marathons using only relevant pop culture gifs, me who says things like “OMG” and “whatevs”, and “probs not”, and “totes”…who sports not a single silver sparkler on my head of silken caramel balayage, has a vagina diner with salt and pepper on the table.

I feel like this was just not what they meant by 50 Shades of Grey.

When I first came across it I thought I must have chanced upon a rogue blonde, and I mean, that can happen to ANYONE.

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On closer inspection [resulting in a possible figure skating career ending neck injury] [if I were a professional figure skater][which I am not][but I could be if I wanted to][just sayin’] it was definitely grey.

Could it possibly be that I was just developing an evil white streak like Cruella De Vil?

Am I the descendant of a rare and endangered variety of human-like skunk master race?

Am I just… glittery?

Have I finally gone too far with my Arbonne highlighter?

Oh, the possibilities.

Surely it couldn’t be that the notorious V A G is aging faster than the rest of my body.

Or could it?

I have birthed three children, two simultaneously.. so I mean I suppose it’s POSSIBLE.

And I’m certainly not averse to blaming this on my children. In fact, blaming things on my children that are actually my fault is a great hobby of mine. Who farted? Who dropped juice and didn’t clean it up properly? Who broke daddy’s very expensive cycling light in a kids versus mum dance-off related incident? It’s fair game.

The first thing I did is obvious. I texted everyone I know about it. Because my problem is everyone’s problem. And by everyone, I mean my best friend. She loves getting random text messages from me about both my nether regions and my post-run bowel movements.

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image via Laura Caseley LittleThings

Then I said “see you next Tuesday” and plucked the little fucker out in the hopes that it was some random isolated incidence of hair follicle mutation, and that in three months time I was not going to have a kitchen scourer for a grassy knoll.

Remember when you were entering puberty and your mum told you shouldn’t shave your legs because they just grow back hairier [or was that just my Mum??]. Well apparently this rule also applies to defeathering the Dutch chicken. Where I once had one grey pube, TWO grew in its place.

At this stage I was ruminating over two possible courses of action. 1. Book it to the nearest waxing salon, go the full Gisele Bundchen and pretend this never happened or 2. Get pregnant so the belly obscures the bush. Because if I can’t see it, it’s not there. [This rule also applies, but is not limited to; cellulite, stretch marks and mess that I throw into the laundry when guests are coming over].

Both of these seemed like extreme courses of action though. I’m all for the old Tasmanian tidy up but going the full Brazilian? I mean, I do want to feel younger.. but maybe not THAT young. And I hazard a guess that being pregnant again and subsequently having a fourth child is prrrrobbbbably not going to do anything but hasten the aging process.

The reality of it is that I’m just vain enough to write an entire blog post about two rogue prematurely aged pubic hairs, but I’m not quite vain enough to be bothered doing anything about it. So I guess if there’s a little snow on the landing strip, my husband will just have to be damn grateful he’s been granted access to land in the republic of labia at all.

And, let’s be honest, you’re better off finding a grey pube in your nether regions than in your Big Mac.

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