A medal or chest to pin it on?

I’VE finally got one.
I turn 24 next month and my first one has finally arrived. This morning I discovered... a chest hair.
For many people my age (to be honest, probably only men), this is an occasion to let joy be unconfined, sing three cheers and hang out the flags.
But I have been ruing this day since puberty. It might start with one lonely follicle but before long there’s enough hair growing on your shoulders to weave yourself a yashmak. And every time you get on a plane they strip search you looking for small marsupials... or an alpaca.
I have spent 24 years diligently avoiding bread crusts, Bundaberg Rum or anything that is even vaguely reputed to set follicles fornicating.
And considering I’ve been prepared for this debut for a decade, I’m ashamed to say, the first thing I did was call my father and ask what to do.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t in. So when he got home he received the following message on his answering machine:
“Dad, I need your help... urgently. I don’t know what to do. I’m in a bit of a panic. I’ve got... I’ve got... a chest hair. Just the one. But what if more come? How do I get rid of it?”
Then there was something of a pause as I realised that, upon hearing that message, any sound person would have me restrained, drugged and locked safely away in a secure unit for the emotionally crippled.
“Umm... I love you,” I concluded meekly.
Saying I love you was my ‘get out of jail free’ card for prematurely ageing my father and my best hope for kick-starting his heart again. I can’t afford for Dad to have a heart-attack because he lives alone and the dog doesn’t know CPR (though Lord knows she’d give it her best shot).
I’ll say this for Dad, when he finally did ring back, he was very supportive.
“So you’ve found... a hair,” he said, consoling.
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Still no sign of a chest, though?”