I am lying on a narrow bed, naked from the waist down. Parts of me are bald that have not been bald since I was 12. Lena, a lovely young Bulgarian woman with fantastic hair, has been poking about in my personals for the past half hour, and now I am curled on my side, holding my asscheeks open as we discuss my teaching career.

This is not a situation I expected to find myself in without, say, dinner first.

Waxing is both more and less painful than I had imagined. The bits one would think would be the most sensitive are surprisingly hardy and the waxing is relatively painless. Surprising and awkward — but not painful. The anticipation is worse than the yanking, but I can't seem to stop anticipating.

The other bit, the visible bit, the bit I really didn't want to lose much of — holy fuck, does that hurt.

I have asked for this bit to remain relatively intact, not being a fan of the prepubescent/porn star look, but when Lena asks if I like the shape, I look down to see there's merely a Charlie Chaplin-esque little mustache sitting there.

"It's nice, yes?" she asks.

Other than my silly little pubic mustache, the experience wasn't bad. It's been a day now, and everything's looking good. Startlingly bald, but good.

I don't even feel like I've given in. I read Naomi Dunne's post about women changing their appearance when they get divorced. Lots of them, she says, seem to cut their hair. I'm just hopping on that bandwagon, right? It's perfectly normal.

This weekend we'll see if that thing about the sex is true. I'll be sure to keep you posted.