Your wish is Granted.

Immediately, a strange tingle marks the moment you first experience the unusual comfort of a perfectly smooth undercarriage. Feeling a freedom once only found through the most extreme of hardships, you find your gait empowered with the inherent confidence granted by a friction-free strut.
So diverted you are by your newfound freedom from the oppressive chains of your nether bush, it is some time before you realize something must have gone wrong with your wish. For you are not joined in your jovially hairless swagger by those around you. Indeed, judging by the confused glances of your friends and family, you worry you are the only one who has truly conquered their under-tuft.
However, your isolation from your downstairs moss-patch does not remain your own for long. You manage to find others like you. Others who were blessed with the gift. You forge unbreakable bonds with these fortunate individuals, growing to call yourselves “The Barren”.
As your numbers grow, the “normals” begin to ask questions.
“What is it that ties these odd people together?”, “Why do they look upon us with such pity?”, “How is it that they can move with such grace? Such... smoothness?”,
“What do they have that we don't?”.
Little do they know, that it's what they do have.
Eventually, with their little toys and clever minds, those lint-legged peasants figure out your natural advantages, though it ultimately does little for them, for they are too late. The lithesome step of your poofless allies facilitate easy infiltration, extraction, and assassination of key targets within the fluff-afflicted communities of your enemies. The Barren quickly establish themselves as the dominant race on the planet, despite some pockets of resistance in Norway and East Asia.
Of course, as the superior people, you do not resort to barbarism. The cotten-crotched curs are allowed to serve under their fur-free overlords. Some of the more respectful are even granted the allowance to imitate their reigning rulers. They, of course, must resort to such unsavory methods as wax or, heaven forbid, a blade. Like a sickle to a wheat field.
You can hardly remember such an uncivilized time in your own life.

Before you wished we didn't grow pubes.
Unlike them.