Perhaps it's because it's summer and little Johnson-packing lycra shorts are the order of the day, or perhaps because I'm strutting around on weekends in my own skimpy negligee, but I've been thinking about hair a lot — unwanted that is, which brings me to human grooming.

Human depilation has certainly leapt to new levels of extremity, even though evolution fails to keep up with the pace, rearing its head like a new follicle on our finitely-smooth bodily crevices.

But up until now, I've only ever worried about my own. I couldn't give a continental about anyone else's furry forests, purely targeting self-awareness towards my own — only redirecting my eyeballs towards unbecoming bikini lines that need pruning in much the same way I'd gape at a car accident in morbid fascination.

Other than that, hair is a relatively uncomplicated facet within my grooming regiment. That is, until men decided to join in on the de-furring frenzy.

Neanderthal versus modern man

Men, in my humble opinion, shouldn't be tacking themselves onto the waxing trend with as much gusto as they are.

I'm a traditional sort of bird that enjoys the fact that while I'm a hairless wonder, they're the perfect dichotomy of difference.

In fairness, when there's an over-abundance of something, I agree that it could be curtailed so that the specimen in question doesn't look like the missing link between the Neanderthal and modern man.

Sure, if his back matches his chest, something should be done. If it means he has to get the whole package done because his skin hasn't seen the light of day through all of that fuzz, then I'm all for it.

But what about a man who has the perfect amount of hair in all the right places? Or rather had the perfect amount of fuzzy fusion going on in the chest and chasmic regions?

Rugged is fine with me…

He was beautiful, and on the outset, he had the perfect consortium of rugged stubble on his face to suggest that he was the Marlboro Man and therefore was more than apt in the bedroom department.

His collared shirt was buttoned up all the way to the top, so I couldn't get a sneak preview of how much nuzzling I could do amongst his soft little pectoral hairs.

I always take a look. Chest hair drives me crazy. It's what a silverback is to a clutch of female gorillas; it's what Alpha Male is to Lois Lane. It's what makes me a straight female.

Come to the final undressing, he'd disrobed himself of his shirt to reveal an upper abdomen that was smoother than Riaan Cruywagen's toupee. Not the end of the world... a smooth chest has its advantages.

The trousers slid off. He'd shaved his legs.

Ah, an athlete. Perhaps he competes in Iron Man. I could deal, although hairy legs on a man are usually a mandatory requirement for me. However, his human form was very tasty, even without the hair.

Smoother than me?

Yet, the situation was fast going from not ideal to far from idyllic. As his undergarments were peeled off, the final frontier had me wincing in foresighted conclusion.

His love-making tools were bare. They were naked and unshielded, almost achingly transparent. Every last strand of Mister Hair had been masterfully removed.

Come to think of it, he was smoother than I was.

Now, many of my female counterparts like the 'Metro Man Of The 2000's' approach, some even encouraging their men to groom as regularly downstairs as they do. Is this the evolutionary downslide of my chest nuzzling perk?

For me, men ridding themselves of their basic bodily constituent that makes them so appealing to women, must be the same feeling a man gets when he finds that his Mrs has ditched the razor and wants to go au naturale because she's been brainwashed by a hippie cult.

Some things should be left the way they are. Save the back that looks like Astroturf, some things that are sacred should be left untouched. Why fix something that ain't broke?

The night with the Hairless Homme ended awkwardly. I wouldn't say it was because he was the protagonist in Shaving Ryan's Privates, I'd say the final nail in the coffin was when he revealed that he'd shaved his armpits.

Was he competing against Ryk Neethling in the Olympics? No. He was software engineer.

Think about it, do men take female racing car drivers seriously? Come on…