IF only men knew how we suffered for our looks, they would appreciate us more. Either that, or they would have us committed.

My friends and I worked out the other night that we spend at least a third of our time plucking, waxing, shaving and lasering ourselves into a state of silky smoothness. Granted, it was hardly scientifically-proven analysis and we had enjoyed a couple of shandies, but I think the data remains just this side of believable.

Hair removal is not, of course, just a passion with women. Men have to shave their faces every day, twice if they are peculiarly macho specimens, and some have been known to tackle their chests and backs. But it is not such a widespread obsession among them and few have known the knuckle-whitening agony of waxing and the eye-watering masochism of plucking.

I first became aware of this peculiar feminine pastime when my 11-year-old school friend, for reasons that I have never been able to fathom, shaved her arms. Not just her armpits, everything from wrist to shoulder.

I began to intermittently tinker with my own hirsute regions when I was about 13, but I have always been something of an amateur. I've only had my legs waxed once - I was 18 and a colleague at my first newspaper did the honours while I stood astride my typewriter on the desk - and I only attack my eyebrows when I start looking like Liam and Noel Gallagher's long-lost sister.

In my experience, other women tend to take a far more strategic approach. They have their eyebrows, legs and bikini line professionally waxed (there's a woman in Murton who can restyle your nether regions into interesting shapes apparently, although I have not actually seen any of her work in the - ahem - flesh).

Even their 'taches are given more attention than is strictly necessary. One chum recently divulged that she had spent £750 on electrolysis last year to get rid of her own face fluff - fluff that I had never noticed. Another admitted she enjoyed more than a nodding acquaintance with her trusty tube of 'tache bleach. And two turned up in the playground last week with fiery-looking upper lips after a particularly rigorous waxing session. Actually one turned up in the playground, the other hid in the car.

I wish I was that diligent, but I'm afraid I've always been a bit of a lazy plucker. When my eyebrows start causing interference on the telly and I look like I'm trying to smuggle hamsters in my armpits, I take action. Otherwise, I just can't face the pain.

And there's always the chance that things will go horribly wrong. I would tell you about the school-run mum who glued herself to the coffee table while trying to wax her bikini line. But I won't. She has suffered enough.

AFTER ten years of looking like the lovechild of Eric Morecambe and Deirdre Barlow, I treated myself to a new pair of specs the other day.

I won't tell you how much I spent because my beloved other half might be reading this.

Suffice it to say, we'll be eating cat food and cobwebs for the foreseeable future and the kids will have to go without shoes for another month.

But back to more important matters... My new specs are beautiful Burberry creations that made me feel smarter and more attractive as soon as I slipped them on. It was like my IQ had gone up and my dress size had gone down in one spec-tacular moment.

So I sold one of the kids, bought the glasses and headed home, closely followed by my other half who sauntered in from work and completely burst my bubble.

Picking up the checked Burberry case my specs came in, he chortled: "You know what this means, don't you? You're a chav."

He'll be laughing on the other side of his face when he sits down to tea tonight. Me and the kids are having the Go-Cat; he's on the cobwebs.

Updated: 09:40 Monday, March 27, 2006