When my grandmother arrived at the end stage of her life, the hospice people came and set up her home to make her comfortable. The bed was in the living room and people who knew about end-of-life care were giving her care around the clock. When I came to visit, I mostly tried to stay out of the way.
One time, when Grandma was being ushered back into bed and her nightgown swung aside, I saw her lady bits. They were smooth as a baby’s bottom.
I thought “Grandma! You can’t even remember my name anymore but you still remember to shave your snatch?” .
Clearly, I was a naive. Sure, I was 37 years old, but some people just aren’t that bright. Of course Grandma wasn’t shaving her snatch, and I’m pretty sure the hospice people weren’t doing it. Even they draw the line somewhere. I eventually deduced that hair follicles die and, if you’re lucky, you go out of this world much like you came in – smooth, drooling, and keeping the people who love you awake around the clock.
I haven’t thought much about Grandma’s snatch in the ensuing years. Until recently.
See, I’m now divorced.
As best I can tell, as a woman, there are two stages of divorce. The first is when you smile and say “I don’t have to shave anything for anybody. I’m free to be a hairy sasquatch and there’s nobody to care about it!”
The next stage is very similar to that; you say the exact same words but instead of smiling, you cry.
Here’s the deal. I’m over 50 and I like men quite a bit, so eventually, I’ll get back out there again but that shit is scary. I haven’t looked to see if there is A Guide to Body Hair for Divorced Women Over 50 for Dummies, but if there is, I’d probably need A Guide to Whether I Should Buy a Guide to Body Hair for Divorced Women Over 50 for Dummies for Dummies. And don’t get me started on A Woman’s Guide to Pooping and Farting When You Start Dating Again In Your 50s for Dummies. I don’t even want to talk about it.
There are just things I can’t face quite yet.
But I haven’t been living under a rock so I know how it is out there on the body-hair front.
And this is where Grandma’s snatch comes in. How long do I have to wait for nature to take its course? Will my snatch be naturally as smooth as Grandma’s in time for this scary new dating scene or will I have to take matters into my own hand? And if I take matters into my own hand, do I risk lopping off something that’s rather critical down there? It’s not like I can see any of it anymore. This is all really quite terrifying.
They say everything comes full circle. So what happens when my snatch is, eventually, naturally as smooth as Grandma’s was and then the untamed 1970s bushy look comes back into vogue? What then? A merkin?
I’m tired of caring about body hair (she contemplated while stroking her lady-beard). I’m ready for old age to take it away along with the the brain cells I’ve taxed worrying about it all.
I can picture the future now. The year is 2065. Kanye and Kim are hairy as silverback gorillas, as is the fashion of the times. I’m over 100 years old and hairless as a mole-rat except for those two nipple hairs. Those fuckers would survive a nuclear winter. But my snatch is as smooth as Grandma’s was and I’m completely oblivious to everything, sitting on my hospice bed clutching a book titled A Guide to Not Giving a Fuck About Your Snatch Hair Anymore for Dummies. The family is gathered around. I smile a toothless smile and drool runs down my chin. Slowly, with devious intent, I lift my nightgown to wipe it…
In a rare instant of crystal clear lucidity, I give my granddaughter a knowing look. This moment will be burned indelibly into her memory.
Everything comes full circle, honey.
