SOMETIMES it’s hard to be a man. I mean, how are we males supposed to look and behave? It’s all very confusing. Some years ago, a gentleman was always supposed to open the door for a lady, and even stand up in the bus and offer a member of the fair sex his seat. Just when we had got used to that, the trend changed.
The traditional behaviour was deemed to be condescending. Men and women, we were told, were supposed to be equal, and it was patronising to talk about “the weaker sex”. Now, there’s a bit of a reaction against equal treatment; some women, it seems, quite like the old style. It’s all a bit baffling.
And how are men supposed to look? Enter the metrosexuals, with gelled hair, moisturised skin and impeccable clothing. We didn’t do that in Cowdenbeath when I was a lad, I can tell you that. They still don’t do it in Thrumster.
But we men, or even wee men, are made nervous and insecure by all of this. I look in the mirror. Hmm. A few more lines developing. The hair is getting greyer. In this media business, it’s important to look one’s best. But should I re-mortgage the electronic croft and go for cosmetic surgery, or simply settle for botox injections? Or will the transformation promised by the manufacturers of grossly-expensive anti-ageing creams be enough?
Welcome to the age of the peacock male. The male health and beauty industry has increased by almost 40% over the past six years. Beauty treatment for men and women in Britain last year cost a total of £1.45billion, which is more than the gross national product of some third-world countries. A recent survey shows that men are increasingly buying into the health and beauty sector.
Orkney doesn’t really do metrosexual man. I asked one crofter if he was a metrosexual and he gave me a very strange look. In common with many Orkney males, I wear a boilersuit and smell of slurry. The female of the species finds this overwhelming. Once I’ve got my Highlands and Islands development grant, I intend to cash in on the new male beauty trend and start marketing “Slurry for Men”.
I think we need to put this pampering into historical perspective. Take your Greeks. Your actual Greeks used to swan about naked in public baths, looking like David Beckham with a laurel wreath. Even your Platos and your Aristotles looked like models when they popped down to the neighbourhood swimming pool.
There have always been male dandies. Think of all these characters in the 17th and 18th centuries who ponced around in powdered wigs. What was all that about, for heaven’s sake? Only judges and sheriffs get away with that now. And what about bishops in frocks, or Kirk moderators with their lace, gaiters and buckled shoes? (“Excuse me, Mr Knox, are you a metrosexual?”)
Traditionally, though, males have not been over-obsessed with hygiene and body-image. The smell wafting from the oxters of both pre and post-neanderthal man has resembled nothing less than the stagnant breath of a constipated hedgehog. Pick up your local out-of-sorts hedgehog and you’ll very quickly see what I mean.
When deodorants first came in, bewildered men who had received them as presents sprayed them on to their tweed jackets. Yes, on the outside. Even I can tell that that is daft. It is evidence of the sheer power of the mating instinct that such men were often married.
Ah, but now it’s so different. Grooming is booming. Men even have baths and showers. They wash their hair. They spend money themselves on deodorants and moisturisers. They work out in the gym to get rid of unsightly beer bellies. Belching is no longer an essential part of the male courting repertoire. What a revolution.
Increasingly, men are selecting skin products for themselves, rather than relying on partners to buy for them.
One thing I definitely draw the line at is having my body hair plucked out. There was a photograph in the papers recently of the Chelsea football team minus their shirts. Not a body hair was to be seen. That’s today’s fashion. Young men go into salons to have their hairy chests waxed clean.
Confession time: underneath my boilersuit, there is a very hairy body. I have in my time been cruelly compared to a gorilla. Calling somebody a gorilla from Cowdenbeath isn’t intended as a tribute. When I slouch the beaches of Orkney, children run away screaming.
No way will I subject myself to having boiling wax poured over my magnificent physique and having the hair wheeched out. It doesn’t bear thinking about. You would hear the screams in Shetland. No, not even if I’m selected to play for Cowdenbeath again, and we’re asked to take part in a photo-shoot for Hello! magazine.
But just when I’ve got used to slapping moisturiser on to my face and rubbing gel into my hair, the fashionistas tell me that things are changing again. Trendy women prefer the old gorilla look. They like their men to swill beer and be a bit sexist.
There’s even a name for all of this: retrosexual. Women now like men to be in touch with their inner caveman. Many women are weary of emotive, sensitive, androgynous males and want a bit of machismo.
So just when I’ve honed my stomach to washboard proportions at the Stromness gym, the latest cultural news is that modern women quite like a beer belly and testosterone. You can’t win with this stuff; it’s really not fair.
Mind you, there’s an up side to all of this. It means that my gorilla look will soon be the height of fashion again. Women will faint in the street as I walk past in that manly stride I have. Having said all that, flaunting the gorilla look while walking down a street in Kirkwall in winter means that I’ll end up on a life-support machine in the Balfour Hospital being treated for hypothermia.
Life is so, so bewildering for men these days.