So when did men stop being hairy?

IJUST don’t get it. I’m drastically outside the swim. In fact, the phenomenon is so far beyond my comprehension I feel as if I’ve landed an alien universe. It turns out that nearly half of men under the age of 25 are shaving their armpits. I mean ordinary common or garden blokes.

I’m not talking about porn stars, Olympic swimmers or hair-removal-cream models. This is Joe Public, Mr Ordinary, your average fellow on the Clapham omnibus – well, not actually on the bus but in the privacy of his own bathroom – hacking away at his underarm thatch with a razor.

Memory whizzes me back to those giggleinducing “sex and personal relationships” classes at school. I vividly recall the “puberty chart”. What happens when a girl turns into a woman? She grows breasts, underarm and pubic hair and starts her periods. She then charges out and spends the greater part of her pocket money on razors, wax, electrolysis and laser treatment to rid herself of the dreaded follicles.

What happens when a boy morphs into manhood? His testicles descend, his voice breaks and a fabulous pelt of leonine hair erupts all over his chest, pubic area and underarms. He spends his pocket money on treatment for zits, Brut cologne and blue suede shoes.

Unfettered and unclipped, his furry plumage blooms and flourishes. Bits of him feel like a sheepskin rug. He might well have ursine outcrops between his shoulder blades. His legs are so thickly colonised by curly hairs the skin beneath is barely discernible. Frankly, we were enthusiasts. We believed the more hirsute the gentleman the more mega his testosterone levels.

SO what has happened to our Tarzanchested chaps? Why do they aspire to being as hairless as children? Most women accept that hairs bristling through tights are not a good look. When the Brazilian bikini wax became the new normal we bridled at the thought but succumbed eventually to pressure to at least tidy up our lady gardens.

feistiest of us fought heroically against the perennial putsch for smoothness. Some women reserve the right to relegate their Ladyshaves to the wheelie bin. Men, however, don’t – in most cases – wear tights, don’t – unless they are Sir Bradley Wiggins – need to be hairlessly aerodynamic, and don’t have years of tradition bludgeoning them into de-fuzzing their armpits. So why are they depilating?

The answer must surely be a fashion fad? Shaven armpits for guys must be some kind of baffling sop to contemporary taste. Call me Queen Canute but I’m pining for the cuddly Winnie the Pooh-esque gentlemen of yore, bushy chests, furry knees, yakinspired armpits et al.

CHERYL, YOUR BABY SON REALLY IS NOT THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS

OUCH! What the beep has happened to Cheryl? Last week she ventured forth in bovver boots, what some observers thought might be cheek implants and a weirdly chunky black bob that made her look a dead ringer for Björk.

As if that weren’t enough, she’s released a song in which the lyrics rhyme sucker with a very similar word, and taken to making distinctly iffy statements about her 19-month-old son Bear. “I feel like a woman now. I’m not looking for anything anymore. I’m whole. I’ve got the man of my dreams,” she gushed.

Cheryl, sweetheart, what you have is a very small boy who is quite obviously the apple of your eye. No one doubts that you adore him unconditionally, but he is not the man of your dreams. He cannot possibly begin to fill the romantic void in your life. He’s not supposed to. He’s the extremely small person who satisfies your urge to be a mother. He’s not your best friend and life partner.

There’s clearly a bit of emotional sorting out to be done here.