I am rather attached to my pubic hair. Or, to be more exact, it is rather attached to me. It’s been attached to me since I was in my early teens, a welcome marker of masculinity. The hormonal rush of adolescence can be delayed in fat boys and I was certainly one of those, so I was forced to wait longer than my cohort for the riot and crash of puberty to begin. Having been so relieved to see it finally make an appearance it had never once occurred to me to get rid of it. Despite the beard and the moustache and the chaos of the mop on my head – all acquired as I rammed into my 40-something midlife crisis – I am not a particularly hairy man. I am not the kind of chap with a pelt to which babies could cling. My back never needs combing and I have always regarded my soft hairless hands as looking like something that might belong to a male-to-female transsexual, once the hormones have kicked in. All of which makes my presence at The Refinery, the top male grooming spa, located opposite Claridge’s hotel in Mayfair, all the more odd…. Read full this story
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