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Magunga and I have a sort of weird friendship.
Magunga, the same one who started the online book kiosk for African literature, never calls me. Ever. Neither do I, unless of course I need a book at which point, we catch up on lost time and my purchase ends up with me buying more books than I intended. If you think this happens once in a blue moon, you know very little about me.
So, on this day in 2016 he is making a delivery. Only problem is I am in a salon. Kind of.
“Why is that a problem? It is only hair,” he says.
I try to explain: “I am in a compromising situation,” which does little to clarify the situation so I come out clean, “I am getting a wax. Brazilian.”
At this point he thinks I am having a big night ahead (I know this because I read it in his blog post titled Beating Around The Bush). As he wonders why a woman would suffer the brunt of waxing, it gets me thinking, why do we, women, do adult gardening?
Self-proclaimed spirit children like myself are good with a wild bush but I know people who like their ‘netherland’ the way black Americans like their White House – with no sign of Bush. Is it societal pressure of what the ideal vagina should look like that is driving us?
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