Bernard O'Shea: 'I could not cope with the gruelling pressure that most women have to endure'

Once I went too far and had to do a comb-over 'down there'

Shaving his legs was one of the most uncomfortable things Bernard ever did with a razor.

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

It's one of life's peculiar oddities. When the hair starts leaving the top of your head, it starts growing out of places you could never have even imagined could sprout follicles. For the last decade, I've seen this phenomenon first-hand. 

The terrifying day when you see a bush of grizzle protruding out of your ear is the day when you know you're getting that little bit closer to life's departing lounge.

First, it starts with the ears. Then it moves onto the eyebrows. Finally, it colonises your back and bum. Suppose you're a fan of Father Ted. You may remember when Fr Jack is sent to St. Clabbert's Hospital for Wayward Priests (also known as Jurassic Park) as he's afflicted with Hairy Hands Syndrome. In that case, he's deemed a six out of a possible 12. I'm a four right now.

Let's be honest. There isn't one among us who hasn't gone at their eyebrows with some form of apparatus, thinking they're going to have the innate skill of an experienced beautician. Last year I broke my tweezer's virginity. I plucked my eyebrows with the agility of a goose trying to drink soup with a chainsaw. It resulted in me being unable to leave the house for two days. 

I had left my eyebrows looking like a destroyed rainforest that once housed several species of hair-dwelling animals.

I understood that day why there is a vast industry built around eyebrows. I call it the pringles effect. Once you pop, you can't stop. Likewise, with the tweezers. Once you pluck, you're f**ked. I couldn't stop myself even though I was in agony. The trail of devastation left behind was clearly defined in pounding bright red blotches. Male grooming has come on in leaps and bounds, and most barbers now will do your ear, nose, and eyebrows.

For years growing up, I watched my three older sisters constantly fixate on their hair. My father would lose his mind on a fortnightly basis. I could tell the time, date, and month by just looking out the window and listening for him to shout; "The fecking plughole is clogged up with hair again". 

He would also be driven demented when they would use his razors to shave their legs. His regular protestation was "I can't have a fecking thing with ye in this house", but it was water off an Immaced duck's back to my sisters.

Having shaved my legs on more than one occasion. I can say without hesitation it is one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever done with a Wilkinson's Sword, and I've experimented with my woolly mammoth (ok, baby woolly mammoth). When the hair starts to grow back, it feels like I've glued sandpaper to my shins; as for shaving my armpit hair, no way. I could not cope with the gruelling pressure and schedule that most women have to endure. I barely even shave my face, never let alone my tan lines.

And then there's the growing trend to groom down there over the last few decades. Nature is not allowed to prosper for us upright civilised humans anymore. Brands like "manscape" offer men a safe and convenient tool to ensure our reproductive organs are in tip-top shape. I've had a few uneventful goes at it down there. 

Once I went too far on the side and had to do a "comb over" for a few months. It ended up looking like Bobby Charlton. Our genital hair might seem like the last bastion of closed conversation when discussing follicle grooming. Still, there is one deep shameful hairy elephant left in the room.

Who do we define as the brave in our society? Is it those who speak up when it's not safe to do so? Is it those who take risks and ask uncomfortable questions? Is it those who turn a mirror on society and roar; "THIS IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH"? Or is it the quiet person who can no longer sit in silence until the flame inside them burns so brightly that it explodes, and they exclaim their truth? Well, here goes nothing.

Why won't anyone shave my back?

Are hairy backs the final taboo? Anyone looking to disprove this theory will have to shave Bernard's back. Picture: iStock.

I didn't notice that I had back hair until my kids started pulling at it on the beach when I gave them piggybacks. I'd squeal in pain, which made it even more fun for them. When I first made an effort with the bathroom to fully appraise the level of fur I had amassed there, I was shocked. My first instinct was to ask my wife. The answer came quick and fast, laced with disgust — "no".

I asked my closest friends. They said no and haven't talked to me since. I wondered in fancy hotels with spas do offer this desperately needed service. They answered; "no, sir, please leave here forever". 

A few times, I've mumbled in hope as the barber is doing my neck, hoping that they will shear me further down. They heard me; I know they have, but still, it's a "no". I've googled it, and the answer is still, "No, now leave Google, you disgusting man". But male icons like Brad Pitt and The Rock surely must get their back shaved?

I was sucked in by Instagram ads of excellent back-reaching devices designed to solve my nightmare, but they were useless.

So to conclude my earnest cry for help while paraphrasing Julia Roberts in Notting Hill.

"I'm just a man, standing in front of anybody, asking them to shave my back."