The other night as I was surfing through channels, I stopped to watch a few minutes of Goldfinger, a film whose scenario is about as farfetched as you’ll find outside a fairy tale.
I mean, a virgin sharing accommodations with seven libido-less dwarves (who actually enjoy working in mines) strikes me as more plausible than a fleet of propeller-driven light planes overtaking Fort Knox, enabling an insane gold fetishist to come within seven seconds of detonating an atomic bomb.
Nevertheless, in the first half of the Sixties, James Bond was the paragon of male coolness. Sean Connery, of course, was Bond’s first incarnation: six-feet-plus of epicurean machismo blended with superhuman savoir faire. Not only is Bond’s frontal lobe capable of performing spectacular main-frame-fast lifesaving calculations, but he can also distinguish by bouquet the year of an obscure Tuscan Vintage or by sight the Chinese dynasty that produced the vase he encounters in the resiquite subterranean compound.
Unlike any of today’s pouting male models (who seem dangerously close to choking to death on their own smugness), Sean Connery’s Bond was almost as hirsute as Ronnie’s co-star Bonzo.
Dig this, for example:
as compared to this:
For whatever reason, body hair viscerally disgusts Late Empire fashionistas. Mention to anyone under thirty that European women just recently started shaving their armpits, and the retching becomes audible. Yet, back in the 60’s, testosterone-needy would-be Bonds were actually purchasing chest wigs.
Nowadays, hair removal has migrated down under as a visit to Bond’s old hunting ground, La Cote d’ Azur, will confirm.
Men as well as women in the Late Empire shave their legs, pluck their knuckle hair, and wax their derrieres.
On the other hand, these same trichophobes think nothing about decorating their bodies with indelible designs fashioned by meth-addicted artisans.
I really don’t know how body hair became taboo in an age when most men would, if given the choice, choose a large penis over a large IQ, so I’ll leave it to you to ponder such earth shattering questions as I descend the stairs of my book-lined study [cue the Bond guitars] to munch on some Caspian caviar, have a glass or two of the Macallan’s 55 year-old Lalique, and then [guitars discordantly morphing into banjo picking] watch me some football.
Or, if your prefer, Tarzan’s co-star Cheetah
 Or save a few Euros/dollars and consult a voyeur web site.