It’s actually a Key Question, isn’t it? The summer is drawing on, and our bodies are being unveiled, like shameful secrets. I met an old friend on a Norfolk beach last week, and, as he stretched forward his hand to shake mine, his chest hair seem to stretch out too. There was a moment of danger that I might be pressed into the crinkly thatch. That was wrong. The hair was wrong.
On the other hand, one doesn’t want to be like this gentleman, whose extreme waxing seems to have undermined the masculine impression, on which he has clearly worked so hard. Too much body concern seems a bit vain and prissy, doesn’t it? I remember hearing about Brad Pitt in Troy… Apparently he was embarrassed by his small feet; wouldn’t let anyone look at them . I don’t know about you, but after that I heard that, I could never take Mr Pitt seriously again. It didn’t matter if he was a detective, or a cowboy, or what…. I just knew he was worrying about his feet.
So there should be some hair, just not too much. One doesn’t want straggley clumps appearing from the side of the trunks, as if a spider, trapped within, were desperately waving its legs for help. That’s what I decided anyway, and, before showering myself this afternoon, I took advantage of the empty house, to go at myself with the kitchen scissors. I performed – you’ll be glad to know – a sensible pruning. The problem, as I stood nakedly shearing myself by the kitchen bin, was I saw my neighbour looking in at me. Ron is a 90 year old farmer. He only has one working eye. That, alas, was enough to see. I think he may have popped over to tell me something about the sheep.
I think I’ll give it a couple of days, before getting back to him. How long, do you think? And when I do, should I mention it?