A bad thing happened last night. It happened in a bad place, just before bedtime. It came out of nowhere and completely knocked me for six. I wasn’t ready for it, I very much doubt anyone can be but it shook me to the core. While I am not one to inspect my working parts on an overly frequent basis I do happen upon the occasional spot check. Such was the instance last evening. And while I have, and I think regular readers will concur, greeted all the disappointments and indignities of middle age with sanguine equanimity I simply wasn’t prepared for what greeted me as I peered down below; a grey pubic hair. I stared at it with the same beguiling fascination that I did so many years ago when the first hair appeared. That one I welcomed with a smile, not so this aged imposter. Before it could exact any further damage on my ego I lunged for the snips and off it came.
Unfortunately, and I would caution that you will all experience this at some point in your lives, grey hairs are like ants; where there is one there are more of the little bastards. Closer inspection yielded more to be harvested. It was at this point when my workmanlike enthusiasm rather got the better of good judgement. I am now shall we say, somewhat more aerodynamic than was the case when I woke up in the morning. Vanity is never an endearing trait, much less so in the middle aged but I yield to no man in my defence of an Englishman’s God-given birthright to defend his pride and dignity with a pair of nail scissors. The tough truth though, as we all know, is that it is what it is. The experience has been similar to the six stages of grief; shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance all wrapped up in a 24 hour bundle. When your turn comes, perhaps you will handle it with more maturity than have I. Good luck chaps, stay strong.