Never, ever, underestimate the facility of pubes. Short hairs curling excessive of an underwear waistband or straying outside a crotch seam, framing a full, 70s-esque bush, could cause outrage or indifference (particularly on women) in equal measure. Ditto a very hairless space that’s usually shaved, waxed, bravely lasered off or vajazzled early TOWIE-style. Nevertheless you let your pubic hair grow, and salon-grade removals are off the table while we’re socially distancing, it ought to be your decision.

Except it’s not, no less than not completely, because of shifting societal and cultural standards, porn culture, and particularly aggressive and effective brand marketing. Forward-thinking brands like Billie (female first razors)  and Fur (pubic hair oil), and photographers like Ashley Armitage, are going out of their solution to normalise natural body hair and the best to decide on. However the openly hairless bodies of celebrities (J.Lo and Kim Kardashian have admitted to removing their pubes) and beach-ready Love Islanders of all genders, plus product innovations from Gillette Venus, and Veet are much more visible within the mainstream. 

In the assorted surveys conducted about why people remove their pubic hair, a partner’s preference is unsurprisingly vital, alongside feeling more feminine and comfy oral sex. 40 per cent of men aged 18-35 who responded to one across Cosmo, Esquire and AskMen’s social channels admitted that they’d asked their partners to alter their pubic grooming habits, while only six per cent preferred their other half to be au natural. Again, for all those on the back, the one pubic hair you’re accountable for is your personal.

Here, two journalists unpack the influences and experiences behind their decision to maintain or remove their pubic hair, and feeling pressured either way.

KEEP – I’M LAZY AND HELPING TO NORMALISE PUBES IN PRINT

Text Beccy Hill

My stance on pubic hair stems solely from a spot of laziness. I’m not attempting to make any form of statement historically related to female pubic hair – like taking ownership of my body, being a proud member of the ladies’s rights movement or a general FU to traditional beauty standards. Those things are all valid, but the fact is that body hair removal costs time, money, and energy – all things I’m lacking – so I’m often sprouting a full bush, hairy pits, and legs. 

While I’m definitely a pro-pubes gal, I can’t stand here and say that I fully embrace and appreciate my pubic hair. That wouldn’t be true. As someone who grew up within the early-00s, the one time I remember pubic hair being spoken about was from a perspective of total disgust by pre-pubescent school girls and boys alike, so I definitely have a posh relationship with them. In my old(er) age (28), I now realise that this can be a results of being conditioned by porn culture, where female pin ups of the era were skinny, bleach blonde women with enormous silicone tits and absolutely no body hair to talk of (Pamela Anderson, I’m you). Page 3 models were a staple of British culture until very recently, and that was how a generation of men believed women should look. 

The association of a lady having pubic hair being dirty or unclean won’t sound unfamiliar to most I’m sure. Pubes are unhygienic, right? They make you sweat and smell. But that, as I hope you already know, is just not true. Pubes provide a cushion against friction that could cause skin abrasion and injury, protection from bacteria and other unwanted pathogens, and keep your bits toasty. The truth is, by removing them you’re actually making that area much more vulnerable to infections. Combining the irritated and inflamed hair follicles with an undoubtedly moist environment is a nasty bacteria’s haven (not to say, the regrowth is itchy as hell). So take that, boys in the back of the bus in 2004! 

But, enough concerning the male gaze, it’s 2020 in any case. Because of social media and a thriving fourth wave of feminism, women have been capable of portray themselves through their very own lens. Visibility of various body types, different beauty standards and different opinions from everywhere in the world are actually easily digestible and accessible online, which have in turn shifted mainstream promoting. Brands like Billie, who were the primary razor brand to indicate actual hair being shaved, have paved the best way for greater brands like Venus to now do the identical. All the time using red blood as an alternative of blue gel when promoting sanitary pads was a much needed step, due to these topics widely being discussed in online communities. I can’t say that I’m an enormous fan of femvertising, or brands capitalising on pushing female liberation as a trend, nevertheless I can’t deny the importance of visibility to a younger generation. With the ability to see yourself is what matters, and I feel hopeful that folks will now grow up being more exposed to the above. 

Having run an independent feminist zine since 2012, I’ve long felt that normalising pubic hair, amongst countless other things, has been a component of Sister’s responsibility. That is weaved in through the people we feature and work with. Activist and creator Chidera Eggerue who recently made a Channel 4 documentary entitled Bring Back The Bush: Where Did Our Pubic Hair Go?, Amika George who just isn’t only a remarkable period activist, but wore a custom set of bleeding vagina nails complete with pubes for our cover shoot, and artist Jess De Wahls who uses embroidery to show (hairy) vagina anatomy workshops are only a number of examples which spring to mind. 

But while there’s been an undeniable cultural shift, what number of women do you see publicly rocking the outgrown look? Influencers stunting for the ‘gram in thong swimsuits with such a high cut temporary that they’re in constant danger of a lip slip, are removing every stray hair down there. I feel like pubic hair on women remains to be considered counterculture – you will have to go looking for it to seek out it. And despite moving towards a more gender fluid world, why is hair still only acceptable in certain places on a ‘feminine’ body, but superb anywhere on a ‘masculine’ one? Perhaps what could be truly radical just isn’t promoting razors or hair removal products in any respect, corporations not profiting off people’s body insecurities in any respect, and just letting us live, pubic hair and all. 

REMOVE – MY PUBE REMOVAL EVOLVED FROM SHAME TO SELF-CARE

Text Simran Randhawa

Now that I’m 25, I actually have learned to combine and match hair removal  treatments in a way that’s subjective to me. I started waxing and lasering due to shame, now I do it as a method of self-care and de-stressing. I don’t feel the necessity to adhere to demands of gender and male gazes I actually have been taught to pursue. Nor, do I remove my pubes because I view it as ‘hygienic’ or ‘prettier’,  but because I want to. I still maintain that laser hair removal was probably the greatest investments I made for myself. I don’t consider myself morally inferior to the ladies that don’t shave. The alternatives we make usually are not made in a vacuum that strictly consists of Western patriarchy – it’s to do with socialisation, culture, personal preference, and privilege. 

Growing up as a brown girl in an Indian household, I used to be surrounded by hair removal. Weekends were spent accompanying my mum to her waxing appointments. The ‘hairy Indian’ stereotype is something I actually have needed to fight most of my life – ex-boyfriends have body-shamed me into shaving, hateful comments on social media have identified my arm hair, and make-up artists have covered up my pubic stubble with concealer on set. Embarrassing at least, degrading at best. This stereotype was something I had internalised by the point I used to be modelling at 18. Within the industry,  pubic hair removal was an uncommunicated norm guised under ‘maintenance’, but as I grew up I wondered if it was to because of having more hair, or our cultural obsession with removing it. The hair removal industry encapsulates every little thing from razors to at home laser kits to sugaring, the selection is wider than ever with laser hair removal alone said to be price $3.4 billion (!) in five years time. 

 Having the privilege to enjoy hair removal treatments means I actually have also needed to define what beauty means to me in my very own way. There’s a differing standard for ladies of color with body hair (not necessarily a reason for removal), my body hair is of course coarse and dark, not the blonde barely there hair you see often in mainstream feminism. It looks like hairiness is an indication of feminist freedom, whilst hairy bodies of color are still deemed agressive. One only needs to take a look at the praise Julia Roberts still gets for having hairy armpits on the Notting Hill premiere, and compare it to the backlash Nike model Annahstasia received for a similar thing. 

Femininity has been denied to women of color in other ways across different ethnicities. For Indian women, it is usually through our hairiness: the visible growth on my stomach, back and upper lip (to call a number of) and the argument for nuance in hair feminism just isn’t something new. I only need to take a look at the multifaceted normalisation of hair removal in my childhood, and being given Nair by an aunt, to understand that body hair is something women of color in western societies are taught to view as an inconvenience from a young age. Something my mum notes, reflecting on her own migration experience: “It was only really once I got here to this country I used to be encouraged to go to the salon, back in Malaysia I never really waxed or shaved. I’d go to the beach hairy.”

Acknowledging the differing perceptions of body hair on women of color doesn’t mean I’m using it as justification for getting Brazillians. Whether I remove my pubic hair or leave things to grow for a few months doesn’t affect my view of myself, I don’t feel more confident, sexy or attractive bare. Like many others, I’m going through phases. I grow it, I trim it, I shave it off, I leave a strip. By emphasising the private decision, with no right or flawed answer, it is obvious how unreasonable stigma is either way. As Molly Soda says: “Selecting to shave doesn’t mean that you just’re insecure. The strongest statement you possibly can make is to take control of your body and present yourself in whatever way that makes you’re feeling comfortable.”

The selection to remove pubic hair (for whatever reason) mustn’t be berated. It doesn’t mean I’m less critical of my socialisation or any less aware of my oppression.  It’s the results of a particular cultural and societal sphere I actually have grown up in, now it’s a selection I make for myself. I’ve learnt that my body is valid and I personally prefer to choose and select my battles. My pubic hair just isn’t certainly one of them.