Finding your first grey pube is a terrible, terrible shock. And then you get over it. Because are you really going to spend precious time/money/energy touching up your pubic roots? Dye them a novelty colour? Vajazzle, FFS? I sincerely hope not. So you cope. Well, actually the first little bugger you pluck, but then you realise you are careering towards a plucking bald patch. Which is way worse.
And initially, yes, maybe you are a little bit self-conscious. A little bit shyer. The lights go off, pants stay on until the last possible moment. And you desperately try not to point them out, with that hideous co-dependent urgency. Because really all you want to do is shout “I’VE GOT GREY PUBES”, to share your shame and surprise. And THEN. The grey weaves its magic. You acquire a white stripe, a Mallen streak. Suddenly you are Daphne Guinness down below. Cool in a couture kind of way. Bespoke bush, who wouldn’t want that? Strictly for research purposes you text your husband of eight hundred years, “does grey pubic hair bother you?”
“Never seen any” is the reply. Oh.
Incidentally, a very good friend – the best kind, the no-filter kind, the kind you throw a party for – once told me “grey hair is beautiful. Grey roots make you look deranged.” Clearly a matching collar-and-cuff situation is absolutely not recommended here. So I don’t double Daphne, and, instead, trot off to my beloved hairdresser every six sodding weeks. Grey hair, don’t care – only applies down there.