The young Indian male is trying too hard to look like an idiot
It’s 2016, so I think most of us well-meaning types have moved beyond the myth that women spend all their time on fashion, grooming, and appearance – you know, trivial, unessential, womanly stuff – while real men do things real men are supposed to do, like hunting for prey and beating up other real men.
We’ve realised (well, a part of the population has) that fashion is, surprise-surprise, gender-neutral, and that traditional gender roles – stemming from casual (and more involved) sexism – need not apply.
So we should accept that men do spend a considerable amount of time on how they look – to themselves in the mirror and in their imagination, to women they want to impress, to men they want to impress, to the world at large.
They own facewash, jasmine bodywash, different types of cream, special protective shampoos and conditioners, hair gel, hair cream, hair mousse, hair oil, a walk-in closet inside a bigger walk-in closet, a closet of shoes, jewellery and jewellery boxes, the whole deal. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just the degree to which it’s taken that seems a touch excessive.
Being a male of the species, this writer is only qualified (sort of) to speak of the dumber 50 per cent of society. And men – particularly the 20-somethings and young adults – never know when to stop (and not in a slyly complimentary “Ooh, he’s so determined; he’ll never give up” way).
Every restaurant in every metro in the country invariably smells like a Drakkar Noir knock-off factory, because two spritzes is too little – you must dunk yourself in the perfume like it’s about to expire. Formal shoes can’t just be neat and clean, they need to twinkle. A beard isn’t enough; it has to stretch till your bosom like a hermit or lumberjack.
A shirt can’t only be ironed; it must be crunchy. Thick-rimmed spectacles are now mostly rim and no glass. You place a 20-something manchild in front of a strong fan, and I can assure you a minor Brylcreem hurricane will follow. Screw restraint and screw aesthetics. Everything screams: Look at me, please, won’t you, because I’m amazing,but without the self-awareness to know of the follow-up ridicule. Because more is always better.
Guys who visit the gym for the express purpose of bulking up often can’t straighten their arms along their sides. It’s unsettling how they walk like zombies, arms all outstretched and dangly. The reason is 1) because their shirts are too tight and might rip at any second. And 2) because their body is telling them that enough is enough but their brain is telling them that nothing is ever enough.
Sure, gym archetypes are easy to mock (their T-shirt sleeves get shorter with every inch gained, et al.), but we can expand the sample size too. Look at the well-dressed, smooth-talking metrosexual, where slickness slowly but eventually transforms into artificial, cartoonish gloss.
The creative-type, who’ll move on from curated carelessness to the homeless meth addict look in no time; the hipster whose pants are now so tight he has to bathe in them; the corporate slave whose watch dial gets bigger with every annual increment and appraisal; the scriptwriter in Andheri who wakes up each morning picking out bits of months-old vadapavfrom his beard. It’s all very Faustian.
The conspicuous absence of balance and moderation is what makes things murky; "fashionable" transitions into vanity in no time. Too often, you have guys obsessing over their looks – spending time, money, and brain cells trying to manufacture a physical appearance which gives them courage.
They inevitably turn into a “type” –that guy we all know (or are), who has the exact same expression in every selfie uploaded online like it’s been painstakingly rehearsed. The guy who gets a haircut like Aamir Khan in that one film, and a soul-patch like Aamir Khan in that one film. Who then grows a beard with a twirly moustache like that cricketer fellow.
The one who judges (or makes) friends based on the length of their socks. The kind who’ll rattle off non-sequiturs like, “You should dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” or “Always dress like you’re going to see your worst enemy.” It’s for people like this that the chill-pill was invented, where sometimes the vanity becomes so overbearing that it leads to crippling insecurities.
This writer worries that all of this could be getting a bit extreme. Like the unbiological eight-pack. Or that new thing where people crop off the hair on the sides of their head and leave a floppy tuft on top – what’s that about?
Why would you spend money to look like an idiot? This writer is no George Clooney, and has been a walking-talking fashion faux pas for years, but at least my wallet isn’t empty (just kidding).
Of course, I’m not suggesting that this widespread sartorial overcompensation is gender-specific – women probably do it as often, just that this writer has no solid empirical evidence or examples to laugh at, hence the narrower focus. And maybe this is just how fashion works for some people – exaggerated tropes flogged to death; single-minded fixation; self-obsession; looking like a clown and not even knowing it.
So maybe I’m taking a leap in logic, but this whole More is More attitude leads to an individual projecting an entire identity purely through appearance. It’s what teenagers do and get mocked for, even though they’re 14 at the time. Placing so much emphasis on only the appearance means other elements of a personality are inhibited, leading to meatheadedness.