(Damn. That's what I should have called this blog.)
I've always known my hair can hear when I make a haircut appointment. My hairs unite and bid for a last minute reprieve. "We were just getting it together, man. Look at us, how full and shiny. You can't cut us now." I'll cut you, man.
I want someone to know my pubic hairs can hear me too. This morning they whispered to my inner labia, "She just called the gynecologist."
Inner labia: "She's on to us!"
Pubic hairs: "Yeah, she just told the nurse she was expecting her inner labia to swell and bleed this week, and that she her left inner labia is starting to swell, and that an appointment next Monday would be too late, it would all be over."
Inner labia: "Uh-oh. And I was all worked up and just starting to bleed on that side."
Pubic hairs: "Well, you better cheese it, man." (They talk this way. They're in the Muffia.)
Inner labia: "You are so gross."
Pubic hairs: "She thinks something's fishy." (Muffled sound of pubic hairs giggling.)
Inner labia: "Well, then it's time for a speed attack. We go straight to the bleeding."
Pubic hairs: "Get started, man, she's got an appointment for Friday."
Inner labia: "Shit!"
This same thing happened last week with my intense shoulder pain. It was gone by the time I visited the doctor. Time to shave my armpits.