Has Covid ruined my personal grooming routine for good?

When the first Covid lockdown began, I hadn’t had a haircut for about eight weeks. That was fine; I’d normally leave it for at least 10 before thinking about a trip to the barber.

In any event, I had never put much thought into what might loosely be termed “hairstyles”. There had been times in my life when I asked for a number two at the back and the sides; and there had been other times when I asked for a number three. Either of those instructions to the barber would be followed by the same addendum: “And a trim over the top.” If my barnet had become particularly long, I might change that to: “A decent trim over the top.”

I once went to a moderately swanky hairdresser at the prompting of my girlfriend. But I ended up with the same haircut and paid three times the usual price.

Despite this general lack of interest – or perhaps because of it – I felt a certain frisson of excitement when the onset of lockdown meant no haircuts for the foreseeable future. Even when I reached the mini-mullet stage, I realised that there was no one to notice – my wife aside – since I only saw people on Zoom and the front view remained passable, especially with the occasional self-scything.

Other areas of personal grooming began to slip, too. It soon became clear that a day or two of stubble would easily pass unnoticed on video calls, and so I simply gave up daily shaving, switching to a twice- or thrice-weekly razor regime. It saved a few quid on new blades.

And, of course, there was no longer any need to dress for the office. I rarely wore a tie before the pandemic, and it was clear that nobody was WFH in a suit. Indeed, I could merrily be wearing shorts and nobody on Teams would be any the wiser, as I discussed the finer details of a key project or spoke at an online conference. Half the world seemed to be boasting about wearing their pyjamas, so frankly I was going one better than some.

Just as pleasingly, I could often wear the same thing for days on end and it wouldn’t matter a jot. True, there were times when I removed a T-shirt at night, and caught a horrified whiff of built-up body odour. But then I reminded myself that nobody outside my immediate family would know, and I was probably saving the planet by washing my clothes less.

The trouble with all this is that we are now being encouraged to consider Covid as more or less over. And putting aside the rights and wrongs of that approach, I’m not sure I’m ready once again to have to think about minor sartorial matters or to spend five minutes a day shaving the modest stubble that appears on my chin overnight.

So far, I have managed to put up a reasonable degree of resistance. Since I generally work at home for half the week, my colleagues needn’t know that the trousers I “happen to wear” on the days they see me, are also the trousers I wear on the days they don’t. And provided I can avoid mud and food stains, there really should be no shame in popping on the same pair of jeans for two or three weeks straight, should there?

As for the shaving, it’s still quite rare to have in-person meetings on consecutive days, so at present I’ve not returned to the daily routine. And actually, it may finally be the moment to admit to myself that my bristles have moved on so little from the teenage bumfluff years, that few people would notice if I hadn’t shaved, even if they saw me face to face and stroked my baby-soft cheek.

In the past couple of years, we have had time to reconsider the way we live our lives. And there may be many ways in which we don’t want to go back to where we were. Time, employers and social mores will all have their say, I suppose.

On one point, though, I’m glad to revert to pre-Covid practice. Photographic evidence can leave no room for doubt: any barber, however cack-handed, can cut my hair much better than I can cut it myself.