Whether they want to admit it or not, most men have crossed
over to the Dark Side of Grooming. You
know what I mean. Manscaping.
I am a manscaper.
This isn’t something I am necessarily proud of, as it tells you that I
have more body hair than I know what to do with. (I’m not one of those guys who has hair
creeping out from underneath his turtleneck, but I have enough to run your
fingers through.) There was a time when
body hair was a mark of masculinity and was the end-all, be-all of the male
existence. It was the sign that a guy
was a good provider, that he had prowess with certain extracurricular
activities, and that he was active.
Such is not necessarily the case anymore.
Social mores being what they are, there has been a subtle
shift in male attitude. This isn’t to
say that chauvinism is a lost art (it’s not, it’s not something I appreciate in
a potential mate, and there is still plenty of gung-ho machismo out there), but
men have started gravitating toward the ideal of the “metrosexual,” becoming
more sensitive to their own feelings and embracing “the new normal.” In short, more Jedi are being seduced by the
Dark Side. Except for the alliteration
of good surrendering to evil, I welcome this, both as an observer and a
participant. I get turned on by plenty
of machismo, sure, but I also like a guy that isn’t the lunk from the Planet
Fitness commercials. In other words, I
may resist the latest “new thing,” but I try to be open-minded enough to
respect the opinion of those who embrace change. And isn’t that what life is all about, in the
long run?
The good-shiver-from-feeling-smooth-pecs aside, my advent
into manscaping was accidental. Accidental
in a give-yourself-over-to-the-Dark-Side-of-the-Force-kind-of-way. While it’s true I possess genes that make
naturally hirsute (thanks, Dad), being a swimmer didn’t help matters much. I had to go through the weekly ritual of
shaving and trimming so that I would encounter less resistance in the water
(which to this day I believe to be a lot of hokum), only to let it grow back –
richer, thicker and more resistant to the razor. And I was proud to do so once I was finished
with college. It was my mark of
successful navigation of education – I had graduated, and now I didn’t have to
be an “anti-Samson” in order to facilitate my daily routine. If anything, not having to shave and razor
and pluck was liberating.
Then came the 21st century, which introduced me
to my thirties, Ricky Martin, flavored vodka and Robot Chicken. I was in a
stable relationship, was enjoying a moderately-hectic and exciting lifestyle
within my circle of acquaintances and had a job I enjoyed. I made it through Y2K with little anxiety. I was “new gay” in a court filled with “old
gay.” Awesome. Liberating.
Fantastic.
And then what happens? The Emperor arrives and seduces me over to the
Dark Side.
Men in general, and “new gay” in particular, grasped onto
the ledge that was manscaping and held on tight. From men that would never consider using Nair
came almost-frantic diligence when it came to trimming body hair. I scoffed at this at first, I admit it. Why bother?
Who was I trying to impress? Why
did I need to join in a ritual that had only one outcome – having to do it
again and again and again?
Good looking guys, that’s why. While I was technically off the market, Tom
and I have always maintained a relationship that is “monogam-ish,” to quote Dan
Savage. We both window-shop, and we’re
not subtle about it. We appreciate the
male form: Tom in his quietly subtle and appreciative way, me in my
write-about-underwear-pay-strippers-to-go-to-the-back-room way. And during my rounds, the vast majority of
the “man”nequins were smooth.
Tom is the one that actually turned me on to manscaping, and
he wasn’t subtle about it. It was
something he did with regularity and when I scoffed, he didn’t beat around the
bush and went straight for the throat: “You know, even guys who don’t wear
Speedos do that now. It’s all the
rage. Haven’t you seen how hot guys look
when they have just that hint of chest hair instead of a rug? You know how you’re always talking about
getting a breeze up your kilt? Imagine
that on your entire body.” (I’m paraphrasing
here, but his words had the intended effect, the bastard. And, yes, I wear a kilt to the local
Renaissance Fair – he knows how much I appreciate a breeze snaking its way
upward on a hot summer day while wearing a kilt made of wool. He also knows how I can be when it comes to a
guy’s chest.) And then, just as I was
waffling, he casually went for the kill: “Strippers do it too, you know. And guys in Europe.”
Knowing my affinity for both strippers and guys from Europe,
I capitulated, and now, once a month, Tom gets out the razor and we go inch by
inch. (I refuse, absolutely refuse, to wax.) He’s extremely good at it, very diligent and attentive to
detail. And I hate to admit it, but he’s
right. (Tom knows, above all things, how
much I hate to admit he’s right.) Even
when it comes to undershorts, as all things inevitably do, I like the feeling
of smooth skin on nice tight material without any all-fangled bushiness to get
in the way. And if you manscape, you
know what I mean. There are few things
better than the shower that follows a manscaping session. You feel truly clean; get body shivers, up
and down your spine; and you always have to re-familiarize yourself with the
feel of your own smooth skin.
I don’t necessarily consider myself a sellout to a fad, but
I have to be honest – I am. And it’s
gripping another generation firmly in its talons. Our exchange students from last year, both of
them from Europe, were adamant about manscaping and told me that it’s becoming
a rule and not an exception (and, I was surprised to find out, they manscape
weekly, something I was completely unprepared for). As much as I try not to get dragged into such
things, when it comes to manscaping, I’m have given myself over to the
Emperor’s service. Tom is Darth Vader
and I am totally his Padawan.
The Dark Side never felt so smooth.
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