If my fuzz box had more personality, I’d pay it more attention…

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I think in total I have just sat for around three quarters of an hour, slack-jawed and wide-eyed after watching thirty seconds of television that have left me feeling like I need to put ‘Wilkinson Sword Ad Agency’ into Google immediately followed by ‘who can I report these cunts to?’. I feel the need to seek the out the people responsible and harangue them on doorsteps, making them explain just why the look of my fanny should be my primary concern in social situations?

At the present time, I’m sat wearing enough spendy skincare products to make even the hardiest Space NK addict wince. My favourite serums are excessively expensive and even my most basic lip balm comes in at around six quid. Selfridges Beauty Hall is my pagan church and I physically cannot restrain myself when it comes to keeping my head looking halfway decent. I am not a complete lunatic when it comes to my body, however. I take regular-ish exercise, but enjoy my plonk. I like to look nice, but have a weakness for Thai Curry. And as part of my routine I will pop to the beauticians for, amongst other things, a little wax of my foo-foo. It’s not a matter of aesthetics particularly, like everything else I just prefer to be…well, tidy.

That said, I don’t really think about pubic hair as a part of my day to day preening. I’m far too busy applying several kilos of eyeliner, staying upright and wrestling my child out the front door without the neighbours thinking that two bus-loads of rabid baboons have collided on their lawns. But Wilkinson Sword WANT me to worry about my Mary. They want my lady-parts to bother me incessantly. Instead of worrying whether I’m wearing decent knickers in case I got hit by a Number 7 bus, like generations before me, I am now expected to have a perfectly coiffured twinkle at all times. JUST IN CASE.

Just in case of what??? Well, the girl in the ad had a near-meltdown because she wasn’t sure her flower was neat enough to withstand a bout of skinny dipping scrutiny. If that’s the sort of thing that will have her palpitating, god FORBID anyone wants to have a cracking good old-fashioned spontaneous shag with her. Actually, don’t tell her. She’ll just start carrying the bikini trimmer in her handbag and make an excuse to go to the loo. Buzz, buzz, buzz, lets de-fuzz! Jesus fucking wept, if you pull in a boozer all you generally worry about is basic “omg I’ve been drinking Becks, my breath must smell like the inside of a Glastonbury long-drop. Hang on! I’ll have a creme de menthe…”. Would anyone pass up a lovely big bonk because of pubic hair? I’m fairly certain that your average randy male would fight through thorny brambles for a bit of ugly bumping. Even the most unruly front-bum fluff wouldn’t be a deal breaker, surely?

We’ve got enough to worry about already, Wilkinson Sword. Your misguided Ad Agency seems to think they can sell a trimmy stick by dangling social fear and insecurity in front of us. I for one could do without the added stress of constantly considering whether my noo-naa is match-ready. I have a family and jobs and a very demanding social media addiction. We clever, busy women are capable of prioritising, so until my tuppence can express surprise, give a withering look or furrow in concentration you can stick your fanny-paranoia up your back-bum and I’ll work on perfecting my eyebrows instead.

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