Grey pubes, YAY!

“Oh, I don’t know, but as long as I meet my husband before I get grey pubes, that’s OK.”
About eight or nine years ago this was one of my stock comedy retorts to people’s questions about my intention or desire to settle down. Depending on how well I knew the person it either made them laugh or made them feel awkward. If they felt awkward they probably didn’t know me well enough to have asked the question in the first place, so I felt no remorse!

Then, I was 32/33. Wedding season was pretty much behind us; the matches had happened and the hatching was starting. I, meanwhile, was not necessarily floundering, but was certainly wondering. Wondering if the urge to settle down would hit me. And wondering if there was something wrong with me for feeling vaguely appalled at the prospect when so many wanted it so desperately.

I’d like to say the fading of my pubes was chosen as the deadline for getting my head round my desired relationship status because it was such a way-off-in-the-distance landmark it gave me sufficient time for meaningful thought and reflection. But that would be a lie. I chose it because at 32 the prospect of grey pubes seemed, well, a bit ick and unattractive. Shorthand for ‘getting old and everything’s going a bit downhill now’. I somehow thought I should be sorted before the physical signs of age really started to creep in. As Chelsea Summers wrote in The Guardian last year: “the stray grey short and curly feels like a harbinger of mortality.”

Fast forward to April 2015 and *avert your eyes* – I FIND A GREY PUBE!

I was sat on the loo at the time. I gasped. I did a double-take. I peered closer, then sat bolt upright, eyes widening.  I looked back down, gave it a sharp tug and it was liberated. Then I sat there, holding it between thumb and forefinger – staring, fascinated. I held it up to the light. I pulled it straight. Yes, definitely brown at one end and white at the other.

‘Gosh,’ I thought, ‘today’s the day!’

This was the day when the emotional walls would come crashing in on me and being single would suddenly be AWFUL because of GREY PUBES and OH MY GOD, IT’S ALL OVER, I’M OLD. But of course, that’s not what happened at all because, unlike 32-year-old me who really wasn’t at peace with herself, 41-year-old me is. Plus, more importantly, I remembered where I was; I wasn’t sat on the loo at home, I was sat on the loo in an orphanage in Brazil and I had a job to do. Seriously! This really wasn’t the time or the place to be self-indulgently contemplating a grey pube with a wry grin on my face!

Aside from the fact there really are a million more significant things to worry about in the world than the colour of pubes, I also no longer need a false deadline to find a husband because I am comfortable saying I don’t want one at the moment. And this symbol of aging and unattractiveness is nonsense because I feel significantly better about myself than I ever have at any age. And I have men who add value to my life, physically, intellectually and creatively and I don’t need them to be more than they are. I don’t feel like I am settling for second best with anyone, I feel like I have carved out a life that works for me.

I tell you what though, the self-belief may be rock solid but that doesn’t stop me keeping a close eye on that little strip of hair. There’s only been one so far but if any more of the little grey fuckers come through they’ll be plucked out just as quickly!