It’s hot here in Cali. Really, really bloody hot. And finally the unthinkable, the undoable, the unmentionable crossed my mind — to trim my armpit hair.

I know, I know. How unmanly could it be to not have that straggling serpent-like mass of curly black madness reaching out at passers-by, trying to pick their pockets, cop a feel, or attract nesting birds?

The heat, the heat… finally I could stand it no more. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a pair of scissors, I snipped, snipped, snipped my way to my now drastically-reduced, almost hair-free ‘pits.

Let’s be clear now. I didn’t shave my armpits. That’s a line I’ll not soon cross. I merely trimmed them, a whole world of difference.

It feels weird. Sticky. Like the hair was some sort of lubricant when I walked, now the arm skin sticks to the torso skin, like the inside of your knees if somehow your legs were attached with your thighs inside your chest and your calves jutting out where your arms are.

I was worried that the lack of that instant black flash of hirsute masculine goodness would be immediately obvious to the casual observer when, for instance, I might sit back with my hands on the back of my head when talking to someone. But no, much to my surprise there is still a distinct patch of black fuzz, like a month of five o’clock shadow.

Arise men, at least ye dwellers in unseasonably warmish climes, and throw off these unspoken fetters. Trim I say, and you too shall know the joy of a cooling breeze where once you could only make fart noises with your hand.

Through scissors lie comfort and destiny — for when they write the books of hairy history they shall remember our names and this day — for we did trim our ‘pits!