There are some men who prefer not to get dirty. Others aren't so keen on sports. In our world, there are packs of fellows who regularly try to pull a genuine look together, use hygiene-oriented "products" and seek mental engagements more complicated than the race car that goes in circles really fast or the orange short-shorts painted on the derrieres at Hooters. History has not been kind to these people, at least not in terms of "terms." "Dandy" and "fop" are the niceties. Children on the playground can be much crueler. And though these guys may be fond of, even get, the girl, they're just a little too fussy to be the celebrated "man's man" of lore.
Not so long ago an expression started making the rounds like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" at an all-boys' summer camp bonfire. Ostensibly, it means a dude who exhibits most of the traits of a heterosexual mixed with some of the more clichéd sensitivities of a homosexual. All that valuable brain power used up wondering whether or not a guy "is" or "isn't" could finally be put to better use—if you aren't sure, then they're likely just a "metrosexual."
Now, is that word another in a long line of taunts ready-made for the school yard ("Hey, let's go play "Smear the Metrosexual") or possibly a defensive posture created by the moisturizing fools themselves to throw off the scent of prejudice and judgment? Maybe it's simply revenge of the Queer Eyes; gayboys at the ready to sprinkle a little reverse-assimilation onto the masses. All these male makeovers so popular on television seem designed to transform Average Joes into wine-adoring, eye-creaming, mini-thems. Is that so wrong? Doesn't the girlfriend love it when her formerly disheveled hunk comes up pretty as a rose at the end of the episode? While the machos stand firm, the rest of the male kingdom was last seen heading towards the mall—and oh, the things they'll find there.
Years ago, it was all about "Harris and Frank" and masculine-sounding fragrances like "Torque" or "Man Musk." Now the offerings are a touch fancier, with boutiques like The Art of Shaving at the Mandalay Place "retail experience" (Bless the Art of the Press Release, too)!
Of course, paying to have someone shave you is not a new idea—spending $45 on the encounter is. Can there possibly be a shave worth $45 out there? Can a strictly heterosexual seek it out without an instant transformation into a metro or more?
The Art of Shaving is a beautiful shop with lovely people and scores of intriguing items for sale. The whole concept started in New York in 1996, when a husband and wife team opened up a "grooming emporium" for men. Beginning with an eponymous line of skin- and hair-care products that advertise all-natural ingredients—a freedom from alcohol, dyes and synthetic fragrances—The Art of Shaving blossomed into a full-fledged barber spa. Las Vegas (the traditional home of many experiments) represents a flagship offering of the same for local and visitor alike. After only a few months on the scene, bookings for one of the three master barbers have already become a hot ticket. Ranging from a traditional shave (30 minutes, $25) to a face and head shave (as long as it takes, $45) to the Royal Shave and Haircut (at least an hour, $65), the facial pampering is at the ready. On the way out, there is everything shave-related for sale: pre-shave oil, cream, soap, brushes (made of badger hair), straight razors, strops, aftershave masks and anything else that makes a face fresh and neat. They also stock alternative brands (including designer fragrances from France and England) in case you're used to a particular product, but be warned they will convincingly make an argument that The Art of Shaving name is unrivaled in quality.
That said, I made an appointment with A.O.S. Master Barber Craig Means for the $45 Royal Shave. Now, I don't know if I'm a metrosexual. I mean, I like show tunes, but I love to bowl. Eggplant is always a nice option, but it can't beat a juicy steak with potatoes. A leisurely bath is lovely, but I'd rather spend a stinky hour in front of a pinball machine. As far as appearance goes … my beard can best be described as "in the style of an unruly young Hassidic rabbi." Indeed, it's a straggly, tangled mess. I've had the beard for so long I've forgotten what's under there. Am I handsome? Is there a new mole? Cold sore? Long lost chunk of luncheon meat? (Never trust a bushy beard ... all sorts of secrets).
How far it will be taken down, I'm leaving to the barber ... after all it's The Art of Shaving, and really, how much "art" is there to taking the whole damn thing off? I think I want a sort of tight Van Gogh trim (hold the ear slicing, thanks).
Craig takes a look. Rubs his comb through the mess. Gets to know my beard. "So, what do you think, am I a potential metrosexual?" He indicates I'm closer to the genus grunge. I tell him, "It's up to you." He decides to engage in the trim. He clears up the point—the complete removal of hair is more "the Art of Smooth."
Either way, Craig is the smoothest. A recent transplant from the Bay Area, he's been working as a barber since he was 16 years old. He expertly puts my face through the paces: hot towel, pre-shave oil massage to soften up the beast of beard, scissor snips to bring the thing down to manageable; he draws lines on my face, then the warm shaving cream, a straight razor shave along the borders with the grain, then against, another hot towel, the rose desert clay mask, the sea sponges in lemon oil, a final towel of lavender and the final light, aftershave balm massage.
In the mirror, I recognize little more than a slight change, but clearly a beard by design rather than default. There's even a smile on my face that apparently reveals formerly hidden dimples (for the ladies). I guess I could head to the local barbershop and for a few bits grab a comparable result, but nowhere near the reward of the pampered process (excepting the dirty magazines in the waiting area).
I pay my fee at the A.O.S., momentarily dream about a frivolous $600 silver-tip badger shaving brush for home use, sniff a little French toilet water and move on. As I glide though the Mandalay, I am lighter in my Kenneth Cole loafers and it's nobody's business why. Whatever sexual "box" this places me into, it doesn't matter. The real question is, "Can I afford to do this on a regular basis?" "Is this a new priority to keep kempt?" Soon, I'll answer that, and with it will come more knowledge about me and my five o'clock shadow than any made-up term the media wants to bandy for this proud, temporary dandy.