I've seen and heard a bit in the past few months about the state of women's hair. It seems Lockdown and the following crawl back to some sense of normality meant half our population went without a regular visit to the hairdresser, for a cut and chat.
I accept it was certainly a tough time "at the top". But I have to say it was no different for us blokes.
Sure we may not go as often, and our buzz cuts don't tend to cost as much as the gross export earnings of a small Pacific Island nation, but we still missed the chat about football and cars etc.
Speaking of grooming though, one thing we didn't miss having to do while we were kept apart from the rest of the populace was shaving. Well I know I didn't. I absolutely hate it. Always have.
And judging by the impressive array of full on beards I have seen around lately I'd say there's quite a few of my brothers who feel the same and haven't bothered going back to the old daily scrape.
Now that's all well and good. If we want to go round looking like a nation of scruffy lumberjacks then why not, I say. I know myself I have become accustomed to the full moustache and beard I have been trying to grow since I was 15.
The difficult thing is when you combine that scruffiness with unemployment and you need to go looking for work and make a good first impression. Bearded or clean shaven? Tidy beard or "natural"?
It's more difficult still when you get a phone call about a job prospect at 10am saying: 'I'll see you in half an hour" and you've run out of razors and there's no time for a full on beard removal.
I don't know about where you are but there's not much chance of getting a (very) quick tidy up at my barber shop at the moment either. He's been chocka. Every day since he reopened.
Luckily we have scissors in our house and I have a wife well versed in their use. Well, she said she was well versed.
I should have known we would have issues when she moved in to cut that pesky hair under my nose, I'm sure you know the one. It's that one we all have that decides to do its own thing and head left rather than follow all the others straight down.
So. Away we went.
Mrs P moved in for the first snip without asking if I was ready. Consequently I jerked my head as she moved in. The result was the smallest end of the offending hair got cut and my confidence in the expert before me plummeted.
And now we've got a big problem. I've got multiple hairs that need a quick snip to bring them back level and a wife that (to me) is running round the room like a madwoman with a pair of scissors.
Worst still. She's started to laugh.
So now I'm sitting there quivering like I'm waiting to be executed.
The entire process went something like this: Whimper. Snip. Laugh; Quiver. Snip. "Oops". "Ouch!!". Laugh; Plea for mercy. Laugh. Snip. Whimper. Snip. Laugh. Snip. Swear word. End.
Fast forward a few minutes and I'm standing in front of the mirror doing it myself. Scissors in one hand, small piece of toilet paper in the other trying to stem the torrent of blood pouring from the massive gash in my nose where my left nostril used to be.
OK, I might be exaggerating that a bit. Mrs P says it was only a tiny nick but it sure felt like a massive gash.
I get tidied up, go to my interview, make a solid first impression (I think) and stumble out on to the street, feeling my nose as I do and hoping the blood hadn't started to flow again during my interview.
Outside I bump into my barber, who is taking coffee back to his troops like a good employer, and relay my tale of woe.
He laughs. "You should have just come in," he said. " We've been so quiet this morning I could have fitted you in straight away."
• Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to firstname.lastname@example.org .