So what's the bugbear with female body hair?
DIDN'T think I'd ever be a candidate for a death threat. At least for the reason highlighted recently.
So for the record, if it does happen, it'll my armpit's fault.
Turns out because they aren't conforming to their role as sexy, smooth, hairless vessels of rose petal-infused goodness that remain flawless day in and bloody hot day out, I'm at risk.
Apparently if female armpits don't retain that level of sweat-free baldness, that's all it takes to raise the hackles of other mammals allowed to freely sport armpit forests, the ancient Blokus privilegosaurus.
Thankfully, being neither young nor famous means no-one gives enough of a rat's about mine in their natural state to want to kill me, but there's still the impression waving your arms about freely remains uncharted territory.
That shaving caper was put out to pasture a couple of years ago and I haven't looked back since.
The same can't be said for anyone else given the number of double takes encountered on my travels.
Just reaching across the dining table can cause enough trauma to scare the bejesus out of a 10-year-old niece. "Eweee what's that yuck?" For some reason my "guinea pigs", as we eventually named them, were a lot more shocking than her older brother's, which had never been the source of dinner table banter.
Even female friends can be taken aback if they are unsuspectingly confronted by a stray feral, their expression indicating they should be culled on sight.
Back off, Sweeney Todd, it's going to be okay, they don't bite.
The razor gangs that sell those implements that do the culling have a lot riding on the fact women are virtually programmed to remove the stuff from every follicle as soon as it starts sprouting (bar their locks - which must be long and luscious - and more recently eyebrows that are now bigger than Brooke Shields' circa 1980).
And then there are the "lady gardens" as they are endearingly known by fantasists but in reality are less French formal hedging and more "pass the Roundup". But back to the hairy death wish celebrity in question:
Lola Kirke (yeah I know, who?) got hammered after attending a major awards night and cameras caught her scouring pads while she waved.
Her Instagram video (it's compulsory) of a pre-awards jig in her room wearing only her underwear and armpits incited kudos but also hatred on a scale that was not just creepy but downright terrifying. But she wasn't the first A-lister to flash her guinea pigs.
Julia Roberts gave us a bristly wave back on the red carpet in 1999 and lived to tell the tale.
There was no social media sacrificial lamb to worry about back then, only old-school cameras and her career lived to see another day.
So with this slightly unhinged behaviour in mind, this month has been designated Get Hairy February, where women are encouraged to grow their armpit and/or leg hair to raise awareness of domestic violence. I guess flying in the face of male brutality by stirring up the kind of perp that could also threaten death over armpit hair is one way of getting your point across. It's just sad that leaving the female body in its natural state is that much of a rebellious phenomenon it is being used to make a political statement like this.
If women really want to shave or rip their hair off 'til their heart's, or top lip's content, go for it. But do it for yourself, not because there's pressure from elsewhere. Body hair is just another female freedom that is ridiculously scrutinised to within a square inch of its life.
If you do decide to go for it during February, or any time really, why not try a one armpit statement, mohawk, smiley face or whatever garden you wish to cultivate.
The more the hairier.