There was a time, not too long ago but long enough, when pubic hair was just… there. You didn’t do anything to it. You didn’t talk about it. It existed because bodies exist.
Nobody shaped it. Nobody cared about it. Waxing was used for cars. There was no pressure to remove it. The whole area was private in the way things used to be before everyone started thinking in photos.
Back then, nobody cared enough to split hairs over what counted as “clean.”
But then things changed. Men started expecting it. Porn turned that expectation into a rule. A shaved pussy became normal, even required. It wasn’t about desire anymore, it was about control, comfort, and being seen as clean. Women, began to internalize it and amplified the idea, through pop culture, magazine advice columns, even among friends, that a shaved pussy was cleaner, sexier, more modern. We’ve been taught by society, like razor and laser hair removal ads that being hairless means being clean. But medically, that’s shaky at best. Pubic hair also plays a protective role. It helps reduce friction, acts as a barrier against bacteria and other pathogens, and may lower the risk of STIs and skin irritation during sex. According to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, pubic hair exists for a reason — it protects sensitive areas and should be maintained, not necessarily removed. Healthline and PubMed Central echo the same: grooming preferences may be cultural, but the health functions are biological.
Photography Courtesy of Julian Lucas 2015
Women realized razors caused hair bumps and some skin irritation, so then came waxing, and soft pink, trimmers with rounded edges and names that sounded like fruit. Smooth skin became the aesthetic baseline, not even sexy, just expected.
But like anything erased too thoroughly, the bush started coming back.
It didn’t come back with a press release or a Pinterest board. It crept in through the back door, a little stubble in an art school zine, a photo set from a softcore Tumblr page. You’d see it in Model Mayhem shoots. Sometimes deliberate. Sometimes accidental. Sometimes the result of simply not caring anymore.
And decades before all of that, Screw magazine saw it, and printed it.
In 1970, Screw ran what it called The Beautiful Bush Contest. The offer? Mail in a photo of your pubic hair (no face, please). Just the pussy, please, nothing that might give you away. Winners would get fifteen dollars and a free subscription to one of the raunchiest, loudest sex papers in the country.
It was put together by men. Judged by men. The rules were crude. The tone was even cruder.
But the submissions were real.
Unshaved. Unfiltered. Full-frontal honesty printed in black and white on coarse, low-grade newsprint. Some entries were careful, some casual, some blurry. Most were likely taken in a bathroom mirror or on a borrowed camera, developed with the kind of trust you don’t find anymore.
Was it exploitative? Sure. But it was also a record. A paper trail of bodies that didn’t conform to today’s polish. Hairy, fleshy, a little imperfect, an honest pussy, not a polished product. And because it wasn’t trying to be feminist or aesthetic or cool, it stumbled into something else entirely: proof.
Some readers will call it objectifying. And they wouldn’t be wrong. But these women weren’t performing. They weren’t smiling for approval. They sent in anonymous photos of their bodies, at a time when showing that much was still considered obscene.
Screw Magazine, 1970
It’s uncomfortable. But it’s also documentation. It’s what culture tried to hide, and what some women decided to show anyway.
All that was missing, and most definitely needed, was their own individual identity. That alone would have broken down the patriarchy.
I keep thinking about the woman who mailed that photo. Did she laugh while sealing the envelope? Did she hesitate? Did she take three shots and pick the best one?
There’s something quiet in that act. Not shame, not pride, just a kind of gesture. Here I am.
And maybe she didn’t care about winning. Maybe she just wanted to be seen in a world where bodies were either hidden or handled like merchandise. No branding. No face. Just the most intimate part of herself, her pussy, submitted without polish.
We don’t need to bring back the contest. But we should remember what it made possible. A small, messy moment of control. The decision to be visible on your own terms.
That still matters.
The pussy never needed permission. It only needed context.
In Dazed’s Autumn 2025 editorial, every bush is clean, centered, and styled with the same care as the coats, hats, or heels. It’s not an accident. These models are wearing their pubic hair like it’s couture, as composed and directional as a shoulder pad or hemline. Not natural, not rebellious, intentional. Fashion, not flashback.
Roux writes about sex, power, and intimacy with sharpness, humor, and a refusal to look away.
