U.S. President George W. Bush may be on his way out, but bush is back. Or so says Lisa Germinsky at Salon, in this piece about how nobody is flying down to Rio down there anymore. Apparently, it's all about beavering away your pennies in these tough economic times.
"It's a fortune to keep a trim bush," bemoans Meredith, a healthcare marketing executive.
But it isn't just hard times driving this trend. After seeing the shaved beav of nearly every pop tart, after years of porn going mainstream, isn't the thrill of the bare vage getting a little stale? If not, you know, creepy?
That was Bill Maher's take, when he lamented on a Sept. 19 episode of "Real Time With Bill Maher," "Bring back a little pubic hair. Not a lot. I'm not talking about reviving that 1973 look that says I'm liberated ... and I'm smuggling a hedgehog. I just want a friendly, fuzzy calling card that tells me I'm not going to get arrested."
These days, even Playboy -- and it's hard to find better experts on the matter -- acknowledges a departure from a near-decade run of absolute clean living. Gary Cole, the Playboy photography director who has observed the region's changing landscape since 1975, says, "It started [in the '80s] with trimming and a landing strip, in part a reflection of the skimpier swimsuits. Then it went further to tiny patches, then to none at all. Now, the pendulum is swinging a little the other way."
And I, for one, am not going to complain.
I first took a lady Schick to my bikini line sometime during the second term of the Reagan administration. The process guaranteed unpleasantries: razor burn and in-grown hairs, not to mention the constant and necessary repetition. But in time, with increased skill, the invention of the gazillion-blade razor and ladies-only shave gel, I gave the task little thought. Until I moved to New York City, of course, where highlights from a New Jersey mall and a "natural" brow were the sartorial equivalents of hate crime. Eventually, seduced by the city's indulgent carelessness, I let Sonya and her thick imported Brazilian wax have their way with me. My lady garden -- once lush -- now lay nearly bare. And for years, that's how it stayed: a tiny patch of hair, not dissimilar to Hitler's mustache.
But in recent months, I've longed for the fuller landscape of yesteryear. While I've become accustomed to some benefits of the Brazilian -- it does clear a nice path for action -- I'm aching for change. The act itself is invasive. I'm feeling a little rebellious. And, hey, money is tight.
Fine with me. As I wrote last year, the burning bush treatment is just a big pain in the butt.
Now if only this would lead to the end of those stupid cosmetic surgeries on lady parts.