I'm afraid the subject of this month's article only applies to 51 per cent of the UK's population. I'm talking about facial hair. Ranging from just a fluffy upper lip to a full-blown sea-dog beard, 'face fungus', as my father likes to call it, is a matter deserving of serious thought, in my opinion, among the travelling business community.
Despite being brown haired, I have been cursed with ginger beard syndrome for decades and, as a consequence, I'm as dependent upon the innovations of Mr Gillette and Mr Wilkinson Sword as an alcoholic is upon the nectar of Mr Daniels and Mr Gordon. But, and I can admit this thanks to the joys of anonymity, I have recently discovered male hair dying products that can be purchased online under an assumed name. I like to use the name David Cameron. Rather like the day I discovered deodorant, it has been both a revelation and a challenge.
Choice has always troubled me, especially in the embarrassing realm of male grooming products. Even when shopping for shampoo, I do the odd reconnaissance sortie down the aisle, covertly working out where the female products end and the male ones commence. From bitter experience I have learnt that this is the best option — one man can only accidentally buy lavender flavoured roll-on so many times before colleagues notice. Then, having reasserted my masculinity by buying ale and beef sirloins, I can return and bundle an appropriate potion into my basket under copies of FHM and Practical Classics without even stopping the trolley.
As a Gortex fan the exciting side of 62, I'm utilitarian rather than stylish, fast food rather than haute cuisine, screw top rather than cork. As a consequence, the thought of being able to save half a kilo of hand baggage and ten minutes of every day by omitting shaving is highly appealing. I also rather enjoy the gravitas of a beard, a sort of Victorian elegance normally achieved with an engraved walking cane and top hat. If Arthur Conan Doyle had chosen to base his novels on the exciting world of IT consultancy, I could be Sherlock himself.
Alas, I have also experienced some unexpected problems with the new look. Firstly, when dressed casually people presume you are a tramp, an ornithologist, or worst, an MG owners club member. Secondly, people presume you are wiser than you are and seek your assistance with cryptic crosswords. But, beyond practical and vain considerations, the reason I write now with a face as smooth as the day I was born (some time between the French Revolution and the Falklands War, since you ask) is because I've been asked several times for an autograph. The thing is, I am a good foot taller than Bill Oddie. It's an outrage.
Our entrepreneurial correspondent travels the world in search of business, soft beds and good breakfasts.
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