how to grow (a bush)

facing my fear of body hair one follicle at a time

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Years ago, a man I slept with once — an aspiring ‘painter’ who was also trying to be an actor, screenwriter, director and poet, asked if he could paint me nude.

I was twenty-one years old and very turned on by the thought of holding still for a bearded man’s gaze. I imagined stumbling upon a tastefully framed oil paining boasting my naked form at a swap meet in the distant future — perhaps with a couple of grandkids in tow — delighted to have proof that once upon a time, Grandma was some rando’s millennial muse.

I had plans to leave town for a few weeks but I told him that when I was back he could paint me like one of his french girls.

We made a date for me to come by his studio later that month and by studio, I mean studio apartment. The only catch? I needed to grow a bush.

“I don’t paint shaved women,” he deadpanned, eyes locked with the fly of my diesel jeans.