Canute of the Hair Waves

So, how do you deal with the stuff?

I mean, it’s a battle, isn’t it? There’s the shaving, for a start – that’s another tiresome pointless daily routine to add to teeth-brushing, operatic indigestion and pretending not to recognise people you work with when you see them on the train.

And I don’t know about you, but my hair hits a point for about two days every two months when it’s in between ‘Quite short – looks faintly thuggish’ and ‘Misshapen – quick, alert his Carer.’ Two days, people.

As if that isn’t enough, there’s also white nostril hair to contend with. I mean, what am I, Santa Claus? How come I’m only an albino nasally? And what’s the point of ear hair, and why does it sprout like the tops of carrots?

It’s as if some weird internal coat of hair is slowly being pulled through my skin by invisible fingers.

Back, I command you. Hell, there goes another pair of shoes. Drenched by a hair tsunami.

And you know what really makes me parp the vuvuzela of righteous indignation (yes, I think you’ll find there is such a thing)? There’s not a single scrap of evidence that hirsute men are more manly, or cleverer, or sexier. Not one. Can you believe it?

I mean, what’s it all for?

Hmmm?