Facial hair — the long and short of it

What is it about facial hair? Not on women of course — we know what to do with it.

We wax it and pluck it, we epilate it and bleach it. I mean men’s facial hair. We know what we like us women — we either love it or hate it. I love it.

Facial hair is what it’s all about for me. There is something about it. Moustaches, goatees, full bushy beards I can’t get enough. On the same man though you understand.

Imagine being able to change your look from day to day. What fun. You wake up in the morning and you don’t feel like a beard type person today, you feel like a goatee man.

So you head off to the bathroom and you set to work with Mr Bic. Actually I’ll bet my lucky socks not many of you use a Bic anymore.

It’s all Gillette these days with the likes of Beckham, Henry, that golfer and that other bloke, what does he do? Oh yeah, tennis.

There’s none of the old style left when it comes to shaving. I have a very early memory of childhood sitting beneath the shelf in our bathroom staring up at my dad, while with a circular motion he lathered up the soap on an old shaving brush and applied it liberally to his chin.

I would sit transfixed as he took out his razor and with a scrape, scrape, splosh he would slowly and methodically take off his overnight shadow. I can’t smell Brut without being transported back to that bathroom.

I was wondering whether my love of facial hair has come from my father.

He was definitely a “FH” man. He had a full beard for years, when the day came to shave it off into a moustache, my brother and I were distraught, he looked completely different.

This wasn’t our dad. He looked like Hitler. As you can imagine it’s not a good look for a cuddly loving dad.

His ability to change his look from day to day however made me increasingly jealous.

It really is the cheapest fashion accessory. Mind you, my agent rang me the other day to say that he didn’t like the new photographs I have had done.

Not a bit. He could see my moustache. So maybe I could chop and change like my dad.

Well it’s either that or join the circus . . .