Bush Whacking, or; How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Bush

by theonceglamourouspandora

So I subscribe to this daily email coupon thing. I’ve never been a coupon cutter and if frugality is a virtue I’m going straight to hell. But I signed up for it and so far am amazed by the daily delights that drop into my box. Sometimes random (Gutter Cleaning, $37), sometimes hilarious (Pole Dancing Exercise Classes, $54).

And it so happened that one day I threw off unconsciousness as I do every morning, with eyes still crusted and heavy, rolled over and summoned the laptop to service, only to find a coupon for laser hair removal.

This is something I have looked into before. In the same way I inherited my father’s cro-magnon physic so too do I enjoy his hair growth pattern. Sparse afro. My sister’s bush was always a thing of envy. Lush. Thick. Soft. Full. Like a baby fox nestled for a nap in her crotch. Damn her. And me. Like Bob Ross’ head if he had stage four testicular cancer. Shaving only made things worse. It was like a clear cut forest of California Red Ceders built from barbed wire, you know, like they have in Mordor or something. The shame.

Needless to say I jumped at the opportunity. I saved nearly a grand.

So far I have been for one appointment. The experience itself was lovely. It took place in a spa with the usual little water fountains and whale song playing the background.

I filled out a little survey in the lobby (“How long has it been since the area has been exposed to sunlight?” Lol.) and they gave me a chocolate.

All the girls were gorgeous and manicured to perfection. I could only hope to look so good….. well, I never expect to look that good. I went into the little room, put on the ridiculous little disposable underwear and climbed on the table. Then the girl came in. She seemed so sweet and straight laced for someone who looked at vagina all day. “So, you must see just about everything, hey?” I asked her. “Oh yea. A while back I had a women come in and get hers done in a smiley face. Accept it was made of hair.” And with that she strapped on her laser goggles and away we were.

BZAP. A tiny lightning bolt shot from the end of her stick. Son of a bitch did it hurt. BZZZZZZZZZZAP!!!! BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZAP! “Hear that? We’re getting a good sound out of them. That means we’re getting ‘em!!” This should have been a comfort, but with the scent of my sizzled follicles afloat in the very air that transmitted these words I felt a little queasy.

All the while they had this tv up in the corner playing Planet Earth. Calming scenes of mother and baby elephant bathing each other gave way to a small gazelle being hunted and ripped to shreds by a lion.

Basically what it comes down to is that you pay money to go let someone shoot lasers at your vagina. I hold myself to have a pretty high threshold for pain, but on my scale of ten this was like a thirty. But three and a half minutes in it was over and my pants went back on.

And the results. I effing LOVE my new bush. God it’s beautiful. If the world only knew they’d see to it I never wore pants.

Check it out for yourself!

BEFORE: Oh good Lord! Put your clothes back on! Cannot be unseen!

AFTER: Should have sent a poet!