Us blokes haven’t got many things left in life. Okay, we’re still needed to open stiff-lidded jars, check the car’s tyre pressures and record television programmes.
Perhaps we might be called upon to take out the bin, or get the odd shrieked request to remove a spider from the bath. But in the main, women now think they can do pretty much whatever we can.
Except, that is, growing a beard. In an age of equality in just about everything, it’s the last bastion of maleness.
I was reminded of this by the recent World Beard and Moustache Championships, held this year in Trondheim, Norway.
Men from around the globe had come up with all sorts of weird and wonderful designs, using curlers and dollops of wax to coax their facial hair into works of art.
The winner, a German hairdresser by the name of Elmar Weisser, managed to transform his whiskers into a 3D representation of the Norwegian flag and a moose.
Others had long ZZ Top-style whiskers that formed a hairy curtain, went for elaborately-teased moustaches that made Salvador Dali look like a beginner or sported sideburns that would impress Charles Dickens.
The event was a glorious celebration of our God-given ability to sprout copious amount of hair on our faces.
Unless you happen to know a hirsute lady who appears in a circus, then the chances are you will be safe in your superiority at producing facial fuzz.
As you can see from the picture at the top of this column, I have clung on to my goatee through thick and thin. As the years have marched by, it’s gone grey but we’re still together.
It gets a regular trim (I wouldn’t want to end up looking like a cross between Catweazle and Uncle Albert in Only Fools and Horses), but very rarely is it completely removed by razor.
When Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister, she famously ordered all the members of her cabinet to get rid of any beards or ’taches and stay clean-shaven.
But I reckon it was nothing to do with the notion that people don’t trust politicians hiding behind some hair.
The real reason? She was jealous.