When my husband and I moved to a turn-of-the-century farmhouse, we uncovered a treasure trove of left-behind junk, including an old, wooden filing cabinet. As my husband carefully opened the top drawer, I jumped as he yelled, βSCORE!β He pulled from the drawer what turned out to be a rather large collection of 1960s and early β70s porn magazines.
βThese are old,β he said, thumbing through the dusty pages.
βWhat year?β I asked.
βIβm not looking at the year,β he said, turning the magazine sideways and opening the centerfold. I was perplexed when he said their hair gave away their age.
I realized he wasnβt talking about the hair on their head.
My husband continued to examine the βhairstyles,β explaining that todayβs porn magazines (from what he has been, ahem, βtoldβ) have only βbaldβ centerfolds. I had actually been contemplating getting a professional groom βdown thereβ after driving by a new authentic Brazilian wax salon. Even reading the sign gave me a painful wince.
When I shared our literary discovery with some 40- to 50-something friends, a heated debate on the popularity of Brazilian waxing ensued, and the growing trend of young Generation Zs to quit shaving body hair altogether. I grew up in the era of shaved legs and pencil-thin plucked eyebrows. If any woman past puberty had underarm or leg hair in the 1970s or β80s, it was assumed you were either a hippie or European, and you were essentially shunned. I recall buying a bottle of Nair and slathering it up and down my legs, only to end up sitting in a tub full of ice water to sooth the burning, as the lyrics replayed in my head, Who wears short-shorts? Not me β until the scabs healed.
I never tried Nair on my nether parts, and never even considered bikini shaving until forced to community shower in junior high gym class. I matured early, and was one of the only seventh-graders with pubic hair, so I drew a large audience. As I stood under the eight-person shower head, I drew stares, glares and whispers. I was publicly pube-shamed. Still, I never even tried shaving my bikini area until late into my teens when tiny bikinis were in and bikini sprouts were out.
The battle of the bush has been around since ancient Egypt, when a hairless body was the standard of beauty. Ancient Greeks believed a womanβs pubic hair was not only uncivilized, but downright ugly. Michelangelo and other artists of the time painted hairless hoo-has. Today, many young women have laid down their razors and gone full-body au naturel, and I admire those who do. Maybe Iβm even a little envious. So much time saved. And have you seen the cost of razors lately? But I couldnβt do it.
As I mature into my 50s, perhaps Iβm just too entrenched (brainwashed?) in societyβs expectation that I have no visible body hair below my eyebrows. I draw the line, however, of going bare down there. I prefer a wide landing strip, or sometimes if Iβm feeling adventurous (special anniversaries, Valentineβs Day), a Dorito chip. As a 50-something female, I feel Iβm past the age when a fully shorn juvenile vagina is acceptable (and by the way, gravity affects everything). But I also canβt go the way of the ladies in our recently discovered 1970s porn magazines.
Pubic hair grooming is a personal choice, and I guess I fall somewhere in between the βorganicβ look of the β70s and the prepubescent look of today, but styles come and go, I suppose. Iβve been told that as I grow older, the need to shave will decrease (along with my hearing, patience, self-censoring and libido). I see that bushy eyebrows are making a comeback this year. Iβm totally down with that trend.

Jade Schulz