Has the pandemic put you in a hairy situation?

If we’ve learned anything during this annus horribilis, it’s that do-it-yourself grooming solutions have proven wholly inadequate.

The results are, at best, haphazard and can lead to even further isolation.

Unsteady hands chopping, plucking and shearing away at bangs, birds’ nests, and unwanted body hair can be downright terrifying.

For many, as the economy has slowly opened up, the most anticipated rendezvous is the long-awaited appointment with barber, hairstylist, or beauty technician.

I am reminded of an old saying: “never waste a good crisis.”

And that’s why I, for one, am in favour of seizing this moment to reassess our aesthetic – and use the pandemic as a justification to return to prior body hair standards.

What was so offensive about Burt Reynolds’ smiling pose anyways? Back in the day, the luxurious dark fuzz that covered his body was considered somewhat sexy.

If we were to judge by modern advertising, today’s equivalent is a hairless nihilist with sunken cheeks and a pouting-thousand-yard stare. While Reynolds was viewed as rugged and manly - in part thanks to his pelt - the unfortunate furry man of today is considered unkempt and uncivilized.

In the spirit of full-disclosure, I have a (rather hairy) horse in this race. Blessed with the silky coat of Portuguese Water Dog, I see myself as a victim - not only of our unnatural contemporary standard but also of chaotic at-home primping sessions – where Sue has come Colour-Purple-close to causing me to bleed out.

Follically speaking, my head is like an abandoned downtown core, with my hair having happily packed its bags and resettled in the suburbs and countryside of my ears, chest, and back.

Years ago, I must have been slow to realize that shifts in societal body hair preferences were taking place.

When my brother-in-law nicknamed me Chewbacca, I assumed it was due to my periodic grunts of joy during family barbecues.

Pampero Firpo - sporting ample sweaty body hair

And when, while poolside, my friend Andrew cried, “Look out! It’s Pampero Firpo” (of All Star Wrestling fame) – I did not, at first, fully understand his verbal pile driver. Thanks to the magic of Google, I learned Pampero’s killer move was to press the face of his sad sack adversary against his damp, hairy abdomen.

At the same poolside gathering, prior to my jumping in, Sue observed the astonishment of our lovely daughter-in-law, Cianna, as she spied my body mane. The poor lass was sent into a further tizzy when Sue reminded her of the genetic odds that her husband may eventually sprout the same offensive fluff.

Further justification of my mission to rehabilitate body hair: I’ve figured out what’s holding back the younger generation. Forget the myth of avocado toast - they’re simply spending too much time on manscaping.

It takes a whole lot of effort and attention to detail! Years of shaving have taught me that smooth surfaces are safest for the dragging of a sharp blade over tender skin.

After the face, the body becomes a minefield for the fine razor. What of moles? Nipples? Or worse, certain wrinkly parts?

And I don’t even want to think about lasers. We all saw on Star Trek the damage they can do to a hairy Klingon.

Despite the righteousness of my one-person movement to bring back the fuzz, I’m not very confident that we will see any progress. There is simply too much resistance – even in my own home.

On more than one occasion during moments that I hoped were on the verge of intimacy, Sue has momentarily turned away in a seizure - followed by robust hacking until a fur ball is expelled.

While, admittedly, this does tend to dampen the mood, I try to remind her that the same thatch provides for warmer spooning on cold winter nights – prompting Sue’s predictable response: She gives me the hairy eyeball.

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