The muff, bush, patch, forest, trimming and gift-wrap, to the carpet, happy trail, lady garden and pubes, pubic hair is a wonderfully strange aspect of one’s life and identity. For something which everyone thinks about at some point in their life, no one really wants to talk about it. From the historical roller-coaster of necessity and practicality, to the religiously informed aesthetics we see in pornography, pubic hair is complicated. My first vivid memory of pubic hair that I can remember was when I was some where around 12 years old and I was in the kiddy pool that my next door neighbour set up on the lawn in front of their house. It was a hot day and my best friend at the time and I were attempting to cool down in the sweltering heat when I look up at her, as she rose from the pool and I saw dark, curly hair peaking from around her bathing-suit bottoms. I remember being stunned at the time. What and why are there weird things… down there: As my parents called it sometimes: the no-no place. Yet, as I grew older the images I saw on screen and in the porno mags I stole a peak from, there was no hair down there. I remember feeling self-conscious about it, especially during the summer where swimsuits haunted me as I assessed the amount of body hair which was acceptable before going to the beach. Then romantic and sexual feeling arose for various individuals and my mild obsession with people’s opinions got me asking questions about if I could be desirable if I had pubic hair, and whether anyone else could sense that I did or didn’t have some, or worse, they could smell me. Like some women and men who have removed pubic hair in an effort to be clean, I worried that I was dirty for having pubic hair or was I dirty for having a vagina?