The Hell That Is Shaving Your Bikini Line While Pregnant
If I were to compile a list of priorities of someone who is currently gestating a tiny human, a clean-shaven bikini line would probably not be at the top for most people. Except for me. And Kourtney Kardashian’s ex, apparently.
In all fairness, can you really blame a gal for trying to hold on to a little bit of sexy? There’s very little about pregnancy that’s sexy (you horny pregnant sex fiends—show me your ways!), so you’ll have to excuse me for wanting to cling to the last vestiges of it in my life.
Okay, I saw that eye roll. You think I’m a tad melodramatic. What’s an unshaven bikini line for a few months in the vast scheme of things? I obviously can’t see the forest for the trees.
Well, the only forest I’m looking at is the one growing untamed south of my belly button. And I want it gone. Stat.
Unfortunately, when I attempted to—ahem—take matters into my own hands, things didn’t go quite according to plan. Instead of the smooth, hairless aesthetic I was going for, I ended up with a progression of emotions so powerful and all-consuming I couldn’t help but reflect back to my Psychology 101 days, where we learned about the Five Stages of Grief: denial, anger, bargaining, sadness/depression, and acceptance.
So for any of you preggos out there who aspire to clean-shaven bikini lines and might be tempted to follow in my footsteps, you’ve been warned.
The preface:
I turn on the shower and get undressed, giving myself a little pep talk as I peel back my maternity leggings and start wriggling out of them like the uncasing of a sausage. It can’t be that hard, right? For Pete’s sake, I’ve been doing this for over a decade now—I could probably shave blindfolded if I had to. NBD.
Naked, I glimpse down and a smidgeon of doubt crosses the periphery of my brain as I’m hit with the realization that I can’t even see my bikini line. It’s faintly reminiscent of my middle school years when all the girls used to stand against the wall lockers, tucking our chins, and looking down at our toes. If your boobs were big enough to block the view of your feet, you could give yourself a pat on the back for officially rocking this whole puberty thing.
Little did I realize at age 14 that I’d be doing the exact same thing at 30, but for entirely different reasons. This time, though, my heart sinks when my innie-almost-turned-outie belly button clearly obstructs my feet better than my boobs ever could.
Undeterred, I carefully step into the shower, squeeze a dollop of shaving cream into the palm of my hand, and lather up.
Stage I: Denial. It ain’t just a river in Egypt.
Seriously?? This is ridiculous—there’s no earthly way my belly is that big. I know they say you start showing earlier with your second, but come on. It’s gotta be the way I’m standing. Maybe if I prop my foot up on the edge of the tub … with my leg at a right angle like this … then squat down slightly with the other leg … gotta bend forward just a tad … push that sexy ol’ FUPA out of the way … I can almost see what the heck I’m d…
Stage II: Anger. One angry woman is way worse than 12 angry men.
SWEET BEJEEZUS MOTHER OF PEARL. Why the h-e-double hockey sticks did I think it would be such a genius idea to try and do this right now? By the way, where’s my good-for-nothing husband when I need him? He should totally be helping—he’s the one who got me into this mess! You know what? I’ll show him. I’m gonna grab that hand mirror he has for trimming his nose hairs. Just gotta prop it up right on the edge here, shimmy over this way a little …
Stage III: Bargaining. Are you there God? It’s me, Emily.
Dear Goddesses of Pregnancy, please let this work. I already got a few swipes in, and I can’t just abandon the job now. I’m already losing my independence—I can’t tie my shoes, I can’t put my oldest to sleep without close-lining my unborn second on the side of the crib, I can barely get out of bed in the morning without the aid of a pulley system. I promise I won’t ask for anything else this whole pregnancy. Just give me this one, small win, and we’ll call it even.
Stage IV: Sadness. Charlie Brown would relate.
The mirror just fogged up. The squeaking of my finger on the glass as I futilely work to clear the condensation resonates throughout the bathroom, which has quickly morphed into an echo chamber of despair.
It doesn’t even matter, anymore. I’m a whale. A miserable, floundering, pregnant whale with a partially shaved hoo-ha.
A hoo-ha I’ll never see again. My huge preggo whale belly ate it.
I sit on the edge of the tub forlornly, taunted by the thought of a massive ingrown hair rearing its ugly head and not being able to do one damn thing about it.
Stage V: Acceptance. Sing it with me: “You can’t always get what you want…”
You know what? Screw.this.noise. There’s a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra in the freezer and it’s calling my name. Not that I’ll be taking lessons out of that book anytime soon.
Good grief.
