Shaving the Pubic Hair of the Seventies
It started with the launch of MtV in 1981. Prior we saw bands of ugly, hairy, rough looking dudes who made amazing music. With the music video came the expectation of things being pretty. The ugly dudes couldn't look better but they could fill their three minutes of miniature cinema with busty hot chicks so they did.
Eventually the look of a band had to fit a certain beauty standard. Something prettier, safer, less hairy. Out went Lynyrd Skynyrd, Rush, and Lou Reed, in came Whitesnake, Duran Duran, and The Police. There was still the sexual tension of menace in these music video bands but the success of more airbrushed groups over the hairier, less polished looking dudes was a stark contrast.
Then came the bush-shaving trend of the pubic variety. The women I was with in the Biblical sense up until sometime in the earlier part of the current century had pubic hair. Sometimes a lot of pubic hair as if to say "I'm not interested in a bikini line and I have to shave everything else so leave my mons veneris alone!" From the subtle trimming around the sides to landing strips to all out nude vagina, the landscape of their landscapes gradually became smooth and seemingly harmless. No more shrubbery, no surprises, no mystery.
Frankly, it's been a downward slide ever since.
I went out with a gorgeous thirty-year-old artist. She was smoking hot, funny, and, in my stunted social sense, all I wanted was to stick it in her. One night, she deigned that it was time. After we had done the sloppy, quick and dirty deed, in our post-coital moment, I asked her "Is there anything I should do next time that will make it better?"
"You could maybe shave a little." she said. "Oh—you don't care for the goatee?" "No. I like the goatee." "What? Is my neck to stubbly?" "Not your neck."
"You want me to shave my BALLS?" "Not shave. Trim. Metrosexual men trim up the area some."
Well, I'm definitely NOT a metrosexual man. More like a Retrosexual man if anything. The idea of manscaping was not something I had considered. But I got the idea that if didn't at least give it shot, there would be no more sex with Hotness.
Two days later, I got out my beard trimmer and stripped down. I stood naked in the shower and went to it, letting the hair fall into the tub so I could just rinse it down the drain. I slowly worked my way around my boys, watching them go from burly lumberjacks to naked mole rats inside of a minute or two. I did a pass on my bunghole as well, just because. I mean, I was down there—you don't mow only the front yard, you know?
I learned two things about manscaping that I'll share. One—Oprah is right. It adds a good inch to the Franklin. Second, like Samson, I felt like I'd left my manhood in the bathtub. No longer hiding under the rugged face of a mountain man, my nards felt exposed and in jeopardy like a child. There was also the itching issue to contend with.
This all came to bear when I saw this:
I have nothing against Timothée Chalamet (except for perhaps the high pretension of his first name). I don't. He's a pretty metrosexual, slightly androgynous. He's a solid actor. Really good in Dune. But Willie Wonka? Why?
Because the Roald Dahl Estate has been gradually softening up the bitter old man's prose into something resembling Chalamet's no doubt shaven little boy nuts. Dahl was a notoriously unpleasant guy who did not care much for people, may or may not have been a Nazi sympathizer, and wrote stories so filled with dark intent and menace that only children could truly understand the malevolence his protagonists had to subvert.
We have a near perfect portrayal of Wonka in Gene Wilder, a gawky looking weirdo who played the character as part carnival barker, part serial killer.
I submit that with this completely unnecessary reboot the nuding of the pubic area of the 1970's is complete.
