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Just a little off the top

I have learned something new. I have learned that some women get pretty for their doctors. Not only a good wash and maybe some hasty leg-shaving — which is as much as I ever do — but pedicures and bikini waxes to boot.

But I can't figure out why. Do we think our doctors are looking?

I can see how you might feel the urge to spruce up the place if you thought the person rooting around down there was actually interested. But I just can't imagine my doctor is. In his long career he's faced down vulva after vulva after vulva — so many that he doesn't even need to cast a downward glance while introducing the ultrasound probe. In fact, I'm pretty sure he could do it blindfolded, backwards, with one arm tied behind his back. Hell of a parlor trick. Life of the goddamn party.

Or maybe we're talking curb appeal. If I put out a nicer welcome mat and a couple of pots of geraniums, are my embryos more likely to decide that my uterus is a nice place to raise a family? One chipped toenail and there goes the neighborhood.

Or maybe it's part of some obscure pagan ritual. Maybe a neat pelt pleases the gods, but an unruly thicket calls down their mighty wrath, guaranteeing everlasting barrenness. Weren't human sacrifices washed, shaved, and oiled so that the gods might find them tasty? Maybe it's like that.

Look, if I thought my doctor actually noticed, I might be more invested in presenting a pleasing pubic picture. (I doubt it, but I suppose it's possible.) But he couldn't pick my pudendum out of a police lineup even if he had a crooked cop whispering in his ear. He doesn't even pronounce my name correctly, for God's sake. Why should I imagine he cares about my lovely, lovely crotch?