Eyebrows? I didn't realise I had any until I was in my sixties. By then they'd started to curl down at the outer ends, irritating my eyelids. "Do you want them trimmed?" askedmy hairdresser. I nodded but he never cut them short enough. I had a go myself but couldn't help feeling antsy having the scissors near my eyeballs and the back-to-front effect in the mirror.
When hair started growing out of my nostrils I realised that this signalled the end of any claims - vestigial enough in all conscience - about sex appeal. I trimmed away these strands and was left with a hairy stump, resembling a miniature shaving brush. Hard to say which option was the more repellent.
Ear hair. What I managed to extract looked more like a thin twig. Strange.
Which left beards. I suppose most men have wondered what it would be like to retreat behind a beard. Certainly many have tried. I did but couldn't get beyond the itchy-scratchy phase that sets in after a week. Lying in bed this morning I suddenly thought - Photoshop!
So here I am. Adding a beard causes the bottom end of the face to lose definition. If there's any latent stupidity in the face, a beard emphasises it. Here I don’t look capable of finding my way to the toilet. Worse: I’ve just discovered that the toilet is several floors down.
I look less bad tempered. A crook waiting to practice ATM fraud would be encouraged if this enfeebled oldster turned up and started fumbling for his debit card.
I see a faintly marine look. But nothing more adventurous than a rowing boat on Lister Park lake. Thank God I wasn't tempted to go all the way.