My pubic hair began the year held uneasily at bay. As I prepared to embark upon a series of IUIs, I trimmed it carefully to a neat length, less concerned about aesthetics than the very real possibility that the ultrasound probe would get irretrievably entangled if I left my pelt to its own fiendish devices. In my nightmares I saw my doctor calling for a hacksaw to free the expensive transducer from the malevolent clutches of my bush. So I trimmed. More properly speaking, I pruned, with my own hacksaw, in the privacy of my bathroom at home.
The garbage collectors charged me extra that week for the additional bag that I left by the curb.
During the months between March and May, however, I allowed my pubes free rein. Unchceked, my pubic hair reverted to its former glory, and a golden age prevailed (well, a dark brown, springy, kind of wiry age).
But, lo, there was to come a great and terrible yanking.
When I returned to New York for May's IVF, I immediately availed myself of one of the pleasures I'd sorely missed since my departure: an eyebrow wax. And as long as I was being partially denuded, I reasoned, why not go for the full treatment? A bikini wax ensued.
My skin is fair. My hair is dark. My bush is unruly, and resents such intrusions. The delicate skin of my upper thighs immediately broke out in angry pink blotches, blotches that did not abate until a heavy, prickly stubble had taken secure hold of the disputed territory.
Upon retrieval and transfer, the doctors took care to wear Kevlar gloves, lest they lose a finger or two to the razor-sharp booby trap that my crotch had now become. I remain convinced that the only reason I don't have twins is because one of the delicate embryos underwent a panicked lysis the moment it was brought into the same room as my deadly, deadly beaver.
And then we waited. My husband kept a respectful and terrified distance, not because of the proscription on sex during the two-week wait, but because...well, have you ever made love to a Garden Weasel?
Since May, my pubic mat has remained unmolested. It has regained its former exuberance and then some. There have been few noticeable changes to my body so far during pregnancy. One of the more alarming is the ferocious imperialism of my bush. Where it used to be confined to a wider-than-normal triangle at the top of my thighs, it has broken free of the arbitrary bonds imposed upon it by my genetic makeup and colonized the rest of my body, hair by single hair.
I now have a few stray hairs, unmistakably pubic in character, here and there on my breasts. I have several below my navel, not the fine down that normally dusts my belly from button to bush, but strong and kinky settlers, digging in, hardy enough to survive the winter. I have three clustered implacably on my inner thigh, at the midpoint between crotch and knee, marshalling their forces, ready to defend their new hold on the motherland.
I am unprepared to stop it from fulfilling its obvious Manifest Destiny. I can only try to hold it in check within the natural borders of my own body, hoping that like 19th-century American expansionism, it can be eventually contained by insurmountable geographic boundaries.
I dare not sit too close to strangers. Who knows what havoc could arise?