Hurrah for the women who don’t shave their armpits. Hurrah for their self-confidence, their don’t-give-a-toss-ness, and the fact they’re willing to point their elbows to the sky at any opportunity. Hurrah that they do it, so that we mortals can keep our razors within reaching distance and maintain a nice silky-smooth hollow that works for real life.

Madonna has become the latest in a long line of arm-up visuals in celebration of armpit hair. In terms of visual impact, the effect is something between having a little hamster living in there and the sort of sweaty and primal femininity you imagine French teenage boys think about All. The. Time.

But in terms of social impact, the effect will be practically zero. If the likes of Sophia Loren, Patti Smith and Julia Roberts haven’t changed our minds, even Madonna is unlikely to do so. We’re too inculcated, too in thrall to Gilette, too Stockholm syndrome about smooth to admit what our bodies are really like.

We’ll make a political stand about our nethers, because nobody’s likely to spot that creeping over our waistband – although accidents do happen – but when it comes to our pits, we really are the pits. We’re denuded hypocrites who say we have a right to our pubic hair but wrinkle our noses at a natural underarm.

Don’t even try the smell argument – for one thing, I bet Patti Smith smelled amazing (of fags and fulfilled dreams), and for another, youcanmakethesameargumentaboutdownthere. Let’s not linger over that one.

I remember going on a German exchange aged 17 and being actually quite freaked out by how much armpit hair I saw that summer. How much hair I saw in general actually, given the Vater of the Haus I was staying in had a moustache the joined his hairline. I shouldn’t have been surprised, having seen teutonic popstar Lena’s famously fuzzy bits. But I didn’t think it was disgusting – I was actually quite impressed. And slightly jealous about how legitimately lazy you can be about grooming on the continent. And I was struck by how, sometimes, it’s sexy not to be sandpapered.

This is not to say I practice what I preach. I can't. It's too... untidy.

So the point is, let’s appreciate the women who let it all grow out. Let’s celebrate them. Let’s pat them on the back, shake their hand and accept that we will probably never have the courage to copy them. Unless an eighth of an inch of stubble under a winter knit counts? No, thought not.