Metrosexuals
It’s time to address a very serious issue that I’m sure has been burning in your heart and soul for the last couple of years. That is, whether metrosexuals are guys or not.
Maybe you haven’t heard yet about metrosexuals. Metrosexual was a term was coined to describe those narcissistic men whose love for their own reflection is matched only by their love of a picture of themselves. You know, like Brad Pitt.
It’s men, who not only spend almost as much time in the bathroom as my teenaged daughter, but they’re doing the same thing, too!! They’re not in there reading the Sporting News. They’re dabbing, splashing, dashing, combing, preening, ironing (their hair, we think), blah, blah, blah. Their vanity is only exceeded by the amounts they spend on themselves due to their vanity.
I decided to do a little research on the subject, and go search out one of their haunts. Yep, a salon. Not a saloon. A salon.
I’m lying, my wife sent me there to pick up shampoo. But being a guy, I decided to multi-task, so there would be some purpose to wandering around looking for one tiny bottle in a sea of tiny bottles.
For my research, I decided to disguise myself as a metrosexual. So I trimmed my nose hair, slicked back my ‘survivors’ (those five hairs that stubbornly stuck around on my head, rather than migrating to my ears), then took off for Ulta, a beauty salon/retail outlet located in the foreign country of ‘Mall.’
The security guard frisked me with his eyes as I entered. Not really, but he mentally cataloged what I came in with, to be compared to what I exited with. Security guard, huh? Guess you can’t trust high school girls to keep from putting unpaid items in their purses. I didn’t have a purse, so I must have passed mustard, er, gas, er, muster, because he let me in.
So here I was, in enemy territory. No mans land, for a guy. No televisions, no Miller-Lite, and, like every other female place, nowhere for hostage husbands to sit and wait while wives migrate happily through the aisles.
Everything was clean and bright, clearly marked and organized. Rows and rows of shampoos and soap, Earth therapeutics, bath beads, blush, foundation, moisturizer, Elizabeth Arden Overnight Success Skin Renewal Serum, spacegun-like blow dryers, hair straighteners, facial saunas, hot lotion dispensers, mascara, nail stuff, and a mini-shrine to Atkins.
After awhile, I just grabbed a bunch of shampoo bottles at random, and dumped them on the counter, asking the checkout girl, “If I glomp all of this on my head, will it get rid of my bald spot?”
She frisked me with her eyes.
No, not really, she just really looked alarmed to be waiting on metrosexual fraud. She quickly processed my order, slipping covert glances at the security guard to make sure he was watching me carefully.
Then I escaped.
My conclusion? Uh, I don’t know. What was the question?
by Norman Cowie
