I’ve always been shamed for my DNA’s generous supply of thick follicles. I’m half English, half Greek – my skin tone sits on the side of see-through while my latter heritage is manifested in bristly mane – and not just on my head.

Since I was 13-years-old, one day a month has been dedicated to testing the mettle that is my pain threshold from top to bottom. But now, I’m kind of over it.

Women and hair have an interesting history. Go to a museum’s Renaissance section and you’ll notice artists omitted the nuances of bodily hair in the nether regions of a woman – instead they’re depicted in smoothed stone or oil painted shadow.

A present-day pelvis is far from the idealised visions of the past – feminism happened and the choice to have or not to have hair – anywhere – became the linchpin for grooming autonomy. But in this part of the world we are still raging against the tyranny of the great hair debate.

I don’t know the stats on this – mostly because there are none – but I would hazard a guess that the UAE has among the highest beauty salons per capita in the world. Standards of beauty differ around the world but here, the emphasis to be preened and primed to an unrealistic level of perfection is purported in capital letters. The litany of laser deals on offer tell us that we are repellent in our natural state.

I’ve felt society’s repulsion for bodily hair in the chair. When I used to get my eyebrows threaded, the lady – or the string quartet conductor as I called her – would automatically assume I’d want my upper lip done next – which is pretty much the only Aryan patch on my body. “It’s ok thanks, I mean you can hardly see it…” I’d say with pursed conviction. Then, putting a patronising palm on my shoulder blade she’d say: “No darling you can see it.” OK Rude.

Since then, I have allowed my brows to move along their natural fault line – throwaways et al – and taken a backseat in the Swiss clock operation of hair maintenance each month. I’ve even walked around in the extremes of August heat with hair so abundant on my legs, my pins have stood a good chance of winning a Mr. Tumnus look-a-like competition. If I were famous I would roundly be sidebar-of-shamed for sure.

As for the hair on my head – it’s only be tampered with once in 2013 when I felt the need to trifle up my hair with lowlights. Let’s just say gold foiling looks better in typography than on the crown of my head. The idea of spending at least two-three hours a month perfecting the chromatic synergy between my natural tone and a bottle is beyond me now.

I have also curtailed the number of cosmetics on my visage – not a political move but more of a nod to the CBA cause. My genetically blessed spider eyelashes get a stroke of mascara when I’m feeling fruity for a night out – not when I’m walking to Choithrams. Who am I letting down? Nope, no one.

I have freed up so much more time for staring absent-mindedly at the ceiling, chomping on a few more pages of a novel, some a.m. voice notes for friends in weird time zones and the ability to save my proud pennies – the standards we are held to, are ******* dear!

Before I’m red arrowed – beauty, wherever you sit on its spectrum – should not be an obligation. But the sentiment dictates that it should be our full-time job to groom. Look at what it takes for a man to be deemed ‘made up’ – aftershave, deodorant and an ironed shirt. Us? Make up as if applied by a spatula. Although, if that is what works for you, then by all means, wear three inches of eyeliner topped with emerald green eyeshadow. Peacock away. As wonderful as I feel without it, I appreciate and respect how wonderful it makes you feel.

As tedious as this refrain is, ‘you do you’ I say – minus the goading guilt. Bald or Yeti your way through life – whatever – so long as it’s not because some zeitgeist has you reeling from the fear of failing to be on message. I for one am not being careless, I’m just caring less.