The Things That Happen When You Have a Really, REALLY Hairy Body, a Blog by Corrine Miles

There are certain things that come with age: wisdom, experience, and hair in places you really don't want it.

It hit me personally near the end of high school.  As if applying to colleges wasn't stressful enough, I had to worry about the fact that my eyebrows were starting to grow together.  I started taking a tweezer to them on a weekly basis but it never seemed to be enough.  And if I happened to miss a plucking, the unibrow would start to grow in even more fiercely than before.

But it didn't end there.  Not nearly.  Upon closer inspection, I noticed that my entire face was covered in tiny little hairs.  Was this normal?  I had no clue.  But what I knew for sure was that no girl as hot as me should have a hairy forehead.

The mere thought of tweezing every hair on my forehead exhausted me, so I tried waxing.  But that proved to be too painful and I couldn't even finish.  So I was left with half of a hairy forehead.  There wasn't much left I could do other than take a razor to it, but I would never be able to live with myself knowing that I shave my forehead.

So I left it.  I thought I was in the clear when I realized that God must've been especially angry with me: I had a mustache.  It wasn't the kind that you noticed right away but when the light hit it from the right angle, I looked like Tom Selleck in a wig.

Every time I tried plucking the mini pubes cultivating below my beak, my eyes would water and snot would come out of my nose.  Waxing was out of the question and I knew that shaving would only make it grow in even thicker.

My friend told me about a laser hair removal center so I went and checked that out.  But the instant I walked in for my free consultation, I could hear the screams of a woman either in labor or on fire.  I turned around and immediately left.

This was when I discovered cream remover.  It was supposed to gently and effectively fry the hair off your face.  They forgot to add on the box that it not only fries the hair off, but it'll remove the first several layers of skin as well.

Good news was my mustache was gone but in it's place, I had a giant patch of dry, peeling skin.  I wasn't going to be making out with anyone for the next week.  Or going out in public, for that matter.

So at this point, I had half a hairy forehead and a scab mustache.  H.O.T.

While I was at it, I figured I'd do something about my coochie hairs.  There is an entire industry dedicated to the maintenance and removal of pubic hair, so I figured this one would be easy.

I was wrong.

I started shaving but quickly discovered that doing this too often would set my cooter on fire.  We're talking unsightly razor burn and if I was really lucky, I'd even make myself bleed.

So I had half a hairy forehead, a mustache scab, and a bleeding virginia.

There was no way in hell I was going to take that cream remover to my coochie coochie and I was clearly too busy burning the skin off my face and tweezing my unibrow to pluck each individual pube from it's home follicle.  Waxing it myself was a no-go; there weren't enough pain killers in the world.  My last resort?  Paying someone else to wax it for me.

I made my first trip to the salon and put it bluntly to the innocent bystander working the front desk: "I need my vagina hairs waxed," I said.

Ten minutes later, I was laying on a table spread eagle while a total stranger named Helga ripped the hairs from my body, one strip at a time.  If you think the pain subsides after the first few minutes, you're horribly wrong.  I screamed the entire time but somehow endured it long enough to achieve a totally bald virginia.  Helga then tried to talk me into anal bleaching.  That's when I left.

I was sitting at home twirling the hairs on my forehead and admiring my smooth cooter when I realized I was absolutely disgusted with my armhair.  Um, Chewbacca?  Party of one?  You table is ready.

I had seen an informercial for this magic buffer that would painlessly whisk the hair away when you rubbed it over your skin.  A week later, mine arrived in the mail.  I couldn't help but notice that the buffer felt a lot like sandpaper.  The directions said that overuse could cause irritation on the skin, but rules never apply to me.

So for the next 45 minutes, I sandpapered all the hair off my left arm.  It didn't work nearly as quickly as the assholes in the infomercial claimed, but I eventually saw results.  "Irritation, my ass," I mumbled.

The next morning, I woke up with the most painful rash on my arm that I had ever had.  Looking back, I'm not sure it was a rash so much as I had burned my arm skin off.  Who knew you couldn't rub sandpaper over your body for almost an hour without it causing damage?!?!

So after all the fucking plucking, tweezing, waxing, ripping, burning, frying, and sandpapering experiences, I only managed complete and successful hair removal without damage from my lady bits.  I considered buying a body suit that left only my virginia exposed just to prove to people that I DID remove hair from somewhere on my body.

But I hear that's kind of a no-no in our culture.