C.E. Hoffman


my right (of passage)


       To shave or not to shave -- that is the question.

   To wax or not to wax? So is my predicament.

   After all, I’m happy enough as a shooter girl, and shooter girls can keep whatever secret they want behind their panties.

   Then again, my intention was always to strip, and I’ve been waiting too long to let it slip through my fingers on account of my moralistic encumbrances. 

   I’ve saved enough pretty little bills to spring for this most ludicrous luxury of a stranger stripping me bare, but:

   1. Yowtch!, and,

   2. Why is a bald pussy a prerequisite to strip?

   Pussies are sexy, period. Pussies are sexy even on their period! What’s hair got to do with it?

   It’s the idea of waiting in some ironically Zen waiting room with crisp lighting and pots of lucky bamboo, then, Yowtch!, and having to ice my cunt for 24-48 hours prior to any extraneous/elicit activity.

   Yes, I’m being hyperbolic, but the idea of a Brazilian freaks me. Like, what if it’s proof of something? Proof I’ve sold out/my soul? What’s next, makeup? Yeesh!

   I opt to shave. It’s more frugal, and this way I can work tomorrow. Mike said my Mary Jane clunkies are fine for the stage as long as I get new shoes soon. Stick it, Prudence!

   First, I must trim.

   Baby poufs of hair scurry ‘round like tumbleweeds. I think of razor cuts, bumps, ingrown hairs, pubescent shame, and force myself to stay positive. I make my reality, dammit! And I will make a smooth shave.

   Gone are the days of bountiful bushes and lush armpits. Long ago is the dare of no-hair-don’t-care. My pixie cut’s growing into a fancy mullet and no, I will don a wig: my feminist pride is too persistent.

   You can take my hair, but you can’t take my heart.

   Snip, snip, snip. Thank fuck for D-Fluff (brought to you by our sponsor, Lush.) I promise myself this will bring more sensation when we all know it numbs us out. Fake boobs, bald cunts. What’s left for us to feel?

   So I’m squatting in my landlady’s tub because my bathroom’s shower stall will scarcely accommodate this goliath task.

   This 5-blade razor leaves a weird residue that reminds me of aloe vera pulp squeezed right out of the plant, but since it’s coming out of a razor instead of a plant, I’m creeped.

   It shaves off surprisingly easy.

   “Bye, bush!” I call down the drain. “I’ll see you soon.”

   Is that true?

   I’m up to my ankles in mildew doing a backwards half-bridge.

   I kind of like the look of my shiny, bald Venus. It’s nostalgic, not just for my childhood, but high school. (And jr. high.) I shaved way before it was cool. Then I stopped right before hair “down there” got cool again.

   I’m somewhere between my ass and perineum when I hear the door open.


   “Uh, Shirley, is that you?”

   It is Shirley, and she’s halfway up the stairs. Thankfully she stops there before she gets a great show (for free): Little-Miss-Stripper-Wannabe with strawberry shaving whip smeared on my nethers. Lady Luck all out of luck.

   “B? Are you in my bathroom?”

   “Yeah, I had to use your tub. Sorry I didn’t ask first!”

   “Uh… kay.” she says “kay” in that “God, you’re weird” way that has proven to me time and time again it is impossible for me to stay friends with another woman.

   Maybe that will change now that I’m on some even turf. Maybe sluts can only befriend sluts, and same goes for sex workers.

   I’m proud of my shave job until I see those little red specks of defeat along my bikini line. Yowtch indeed.

   Being a girl hurts.

   And shaving is more trouble than it’s worth.