What do you think?
Rate this book


320 pages, Paperback
First published August 21, 2018
I was reminded of lice-check days in kindergarten. The nurse came in with latex gloves...she laid those virtuosic hands onto my head. My eyes rolled back and my arms got gooseflesh as she parted my hair into tiny chunks and looked through each nook and cranny of my scalp. Lice check, I thought, should last forever. Parasite detection felt so good.And here she takes on what author Tim Winton has memorably described as "hammy crotchpong":
From that day forward, I got excited whenever a nurse appeared with latex gloves (an impulse that would eventually fail me.)
I couldn't even sit safely on the toilet anymore. Three weeks into her tenure at our apartment, [our puppy] charged into the bathroom when I was at my most vulnerable and locked her jaws onto the crotch portion of my underwear. She dug her front paws into the bath mat as she tried her hardest to pull my underwear free from my ankles. I tried to shake her loose, but only so much movement is advised in that situation.But herein lies the problem. It's fine to make a couple of jokes about (alleged) crotch stink. But then her journalistic instincts take over, and we're led on a very long tour through interviews with microbiologists, OB/GYNs, psychologists specializing in our responses to odors, people who write puff pieces for Allure magazine about douche, etc etc etc. Since there isn't actually anything wrong here, having nine or ten experts telling her she's barking up the wrong tree actually gets pretty boring.
To be a complete woman, I felt as though I had to get rid of a part of myself. But why? Why does there have to be all this shame and angst about something that's a natural part of being woman? The pressure to be hairless has driven me to feel like I have to hide something from my fiance, to spend thousands of dollars, to feel less worthy than my female peers.