I have received the letter that we all dread getting but know we have to do. A request to present myself at the GP for a smear test. Surely three years aren’t up already? I even made a phone call and waited five minutes on hold to find out what I already knew, yep it was.
So the age old question, what should I do with my lady garden? I don’t want to look like a porn star but equally I don’t want to look like I’ve got Lionel Richie hidden in my pants. This is usually enough of a dilemma but, this time, the beauticians are shut and I was going to have to do it myself. Razor – itchy, wax – hurty, clippers or Flymo – I just don’t know?
It’s fair to say that, during lockdown, all manner of follicle is more unkempt than ever before but why should the poor nurse take the brunt of it and have to forage in a pouch of tobacco? No, decisive action was needed, or was it? I’d have to keep the face mask on throughout so perhaps with the addition of sunglasses and a hat I could remain as anonymous as Banksie. Oh, but they have my name, date of birth and address. Plan foiled.
I looked at the husband’s beard clippers and knew it was a very bad sin to trim the weasel with his face thingy but I knew I was going to have to do it. I tried a wax strip for the side burns and then set about myself with a No. 4, hoping it would be enough coverage and not too itchy as it re-grew. I’ll let you know…
The smear was fine. Of course I hid my knickers amongst my trousers on the chair, which is standard protocol at such an event, even though the nurse was about to look at a part of me I haven’t even seen. Then, just like that, it was over within a matter of seconds.
After I returned home, I saw the husband looking quizzically at his beard strimmer and how I kept a straight face I don’t know, he said “what do you reckon all this pink sticky stuff is?” as he pointed to a bit of hairy wax.