The Drunken Beard Trimmer Incident

NOTE: This post gets pretty graphic. If you don’t feel like reading about my pubic hair, please stop here.

However, if you DO feel like reading about my pubic hair, please continue.

Enjoy! =)


As I mentioned before, I have trouble with hair removal because I have really sensitive skin. After the traumatic experience of using the Horrible Machine on my pubic hair, I decided that no, I will not remove it. If anyone is granted access to that region of my body, they’re just gonna have to deal with it. It’s my body and I will not apologize for it.

Still, the hair gets itchy.

I tried trimming it with scissors, but it was very labor intensive. It turned out that it was hard to get into a position where I could both see what I was doing and manipulate the scissors without cutting off my labia.

So I bought a beard trimmer. It seemed like a very practical solution, but I was pretty intimidated. I had never used one before, mostly because I’ve never had a beard. After I bought it, I opened up the package and carefully read the instructions. I charged it, took it apart, examined all the pieces, and put it back together. I was now an expert. I didn’t have time right then, but I told myself that, sometime soon, I would have the best trimmed pubes Germany has ever seen.

I put it back in the box and it stayed there for three weeks.

Like I said, I was intimidated.

Then, for some reason (at about 3 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon), I decided I was officially Done With Adult Stuff, and proceeded to drink approximately all the whiskey over the next few hours.

It was great. I spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the floor of my bedroom, alternately doing the robot and contemplating my life choices while listening to stuff like this:

*This song is mostly a jagged electric blue spiral, shot with flashes of black, metallic gray, and yellow. There’s also a sound in the chorus that makes me think of Doctor Who and it makes me so, so happy.
**If that sounded completely insane to you, here’s a link to my post on synesthesia.

A few hours into this funk, I made an important realization. True, eventually I might have to go back to the United States and be a waitress until I die, but that didn’t mean I was helpless now. There was something very important that I had yet to do, and now I had time to do it. The thought of getting up off the floor was daunting, but I made up my mind: If there’s one thing in my life that I have control over right now, it’s the length of my pubic hairs. LET’S DO THIS!

I pushed myself up, grabbed the beard trimmer and stumbled into the bathroom.

I reread the instructions, just to make sure I knew what I was doing, and then I undressed, stepped into the shower, and went to work.

I was definitely gonna have to clean the tub, but compared to the Horrible Machine, it was fantastic. I was halfway finished in what felt like no time at all. This was such a good idea.

I decided: Drunk Hedgehog is super good at operating machinery.

Then I felt something snag.

I switched the trimmer off and froze. Nothing happened. Nothing hurt. Still, I thought I should check to make sure everything was intact before I kept trimming. I reached down to feel where the trimmer had snagged. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, but when I looked down, my fingers were covered in blood.


That was when blood started dripping into the bathtub.

Labial wounds bleed a lot, you guys.

As I watched more blood spatter against the porcelain between my feet, I wondered how I was gonna fix this. I had put some paper towels on top of the washing machine, but that was on the other side of the toilet. I really didn’t want to leave a trail of bloody footprints and hair stubble across the bathroom. Even if I did leave the tub, my landlady had what looked like a well-loved, brightly colored bathroom rug next to the bathtub. It had probably been in her family for generations. I supposed I could take a giant step from the bathtub to the tile on the other side of the rug, but that seemed like a huge risk. I would probably drip blood on the rug as I stepped over it, and in my current state, I would probably hurt myself in the process.

My solution was to lean precariously over the edge of tub and try really hard not to do a faceplant into the toilet seat.

It turns out that approximately 300 shots of whiskey does not beat four years of yoga. I was able to reach way out from the tub to grab the paper towels without losing my balance. I didn’t even get blood outside the tub.

As I stood in the blood-spattered bathtub, drunk, naked, covered in hair stubble while holding a beard trimmer in one hand and pressing a wad of bloody paper towels to my crotch with the other, I couldn’t help but wonder: Did I lock the bathroom door? This would be hard to explain if my landlady were to walk in right now.

The bleeding stopped pretty soon after I applied pressure, and I leaned out again and grabbed my handheld mirror from the washing machine to survey the damage. At first I couldn’t find it. When I did, I felt a strange mix of relief and outrage.

It looked like a tiny papercut. WTF.

Labial wounds bleed a lot, you guys.

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