photo: iStock/Daniela Vesco, Vivala
My pubic hair revolution started about three years ago: I was covered in Nair one day waddling around my apartment like a giant gingerbread cookie, when my brain received an urgent e-mail from my vagina. I had been prepping to see my boyfriend for the first time in three months, and I wanted the road to my orgasm to be very clear: Insert here. In my mind, a hairless approach seemed like the best way to go, but apparently my vajajay was not in agreement. 

  Dear B, 

 I love you. I love your man. And I really love looking good for you and for everyone else during bikini season. But I hate his jackrabbit sex. It hurts so much! Then we always have to check for ingrown hairs or UTI scares, and I just can’t deal anymore. Why do you hate me so much? Can you leave me a little tuft — just a little triangle of mystery at the top? I swear I will perform like a rockstar, and he won't get lost. Trust me, we’ll all love it.


Hmm. I thought to myself. Maybe she had a point?

Why am I Even Shaving? 
To be honest, I don’t know what possessed me to start going bare senior year of high school: I was still a virgin and had never talked about it with another woman before. In retrospect, it could have all those naughty AOL chat rooms I’d sneak into when my parents weren’t home that planted the seed — but who can really be sure of these things. What I do know is that the habit got reinforced in college, where more women were sexually active and quickly affirming: If you shave it, they use it — a lot! 

And if you weren’t keeping it bare, you’d get an "ewwww" with a side of "oh my god, I cannot!" As if you were keeping a colony of what looked like cystic acne above your cho-cha by choice. We were only 19 and the self-hate was so thick, but unfortunately, so was the need for peen. So we kept up with the game — shaving it, waxing it, creaming it, the works. I even perfected the shave of the “unicorn hairs” (yes, my coined term for the hair in the back).

And it seemed all the boys enjoyed the happy meal.

But I’m not so sure that I did. After all, every time I reached for the razor and took away my muff, a small judgment was made: This part of me is ugly.

A History of Baldness 
Intrigued by the phenomena, I did a little research and quickly found that humans have been snatching bushes off for centuries. The ancient Egyptians are credited for perfecting the art cleaning the lady mound, by using razors, beeswax, and tweezers. The trend was also popular in ancient Greek societies, as having hair down there was considered “uncivilized.” And later in, in K. Hansen's thesis, Hair or Bare?: The History of American Women and Hair Removal, 1914-1934, she shares that even during the height of the Roman Empire, women engaged in hair removal with regularity, using pumice stones, razors, and depilatory cream (i.e. ancient Nair). 

And as technology advances, the options to manage the pubic wildness only continues to multiply. In 2015, in addition to shaving, waxing, or lasering the hair off your dugout, you can now reconstruct your vagina entirely, get it laser tightened, rejuvenated or get a clitoral hood lift or labiaplasty. 

Yes, lift the hood of your clit. Maybe because lots of men don’t know where to find it?

The more I researched the cosmetic options, the more I became really bothered. I’ve seen dozens of lopsided balls out there and one penis — I’ll never forget — that looked like a fat, bloated Twizzler. But when if I’m into a guy, I’m into a guy. I’ll swipe a sloppy ball to the side and act like Christmas dinner if it makes my man happy. I really don’t care. So why would I perpetuate the crooked perspective that a guy’s body is perfect as is, and suffer extensive and constant tweaks in order for my own to be good enough?

It doesn’t seem right. 

Coming to a Change
The day I got that e-mail from my vagina, I really had to give the girl credit for speaking up. It gave me the pause I needed to realize I had been hating on her for a very long time.

That day, I left a small triangle patch just above my cho-cha, and to my surprise, the boyfriend was into it. Ever since, I’ve played with my hair the way one decides whether or not to wear a ponytail. Sometimes it’s bald. Sometimes it’s a landing strip. Sometimes I’m just tired and you get what you get. But whenever I drop my thong and arrive to the party, I show off my creation with pizazz. Because it’s mine — my hair. And it’s your hair — our hair. We can keep shaving it, ripping it, lasering it, and continue to train men that we are better women when we do not confidently accept ourselves as we naturally are. Or we can shake up the system and get men back on our page: Saying it’s my body and you’re lucky to be holding it — bush or no bush. It’s whatever I decide, damn it.

What do you think? Are you tired of shaving? Have you thought of lasering? How do you feel about your relationship to your vaginal hair? I want to know! 

Breonna Rodriguez is a Founding Creator and love and relationships blogger. When she's not writing for, you can find her at