Fleet Street; or, Pipes, Facial Hair, and Suits

I love everything about this, and I think many of you will as well. If only newspaper men still looked like this, what? Click on the picture to be taken to the video. Be prepared for smart men in wide-lapel suits, pipes in conference rooms, and moustaches at which one could not shake a stick.

FLEET STREET

Perils of the Fad

This post gives me the pleasure of re-introducing my artist friend, Julian Peters, whose website is now full of his magical skills. Honestly, who knew that poetry and comic books could make such stylish bedfellows. I hasten you there, where you may happily lose an hour or two.

We’re all subject to fads; even the best of us. Although the more elegant of our number will point to a certain permanence of style, we nevertheless watch as cuts go in and out, longer and shorter, and as tie widths narrow and widen from one year to the next. Take time-lapse photography of the face of an adult male over ten years and you will see his sideburns dance up and down, with seasonal facial hair sprouting and disappearing whimsically. The mutton chop, however, is now dead (and wherever you see it, you can be sure it’s a fad). At least we can say that the mode du jour in these terms is only variations on a theme. Taking a broad view, things appear basically to stay the same.

Reproduced with permission. Julianpeterscomics.com

Click to enlarge.

Not so in the inelegant world. There’s a meaningless revolution every five minutes out there on the street, as vanity dolls everywhere do their best to be miniature poodle of the year. It really is as tasteless as Crufts. Someone should hand out rosettes for best in show. Particularly annoying this year is the craze among women to wear not-quite-thick-enough black tights sans skirt. This year I’ve seen more underwear, cellulite, bum sweat, and unmentionable bulges than any given single man with broadband. And all I’ve been doing is making my way on the pavement, trying in vain to mind my own business. Really, ‘ladies’, when did you decide that this was above board? If it’s merely a fad to presage the second-coming of the long dress and empire waist I might just about live with it. I fear however, that the next step will be even more revealing, and a further notch on the self-degrading scale.

The male fad that’s made me sigh most this year – and maybe it’s just a Berlin thing – is wearing glasses without lenses. That’s right, just frames. It helps if the frames are luminous pink, or green, but I’ve also seen rather swish tortoise-shell affairs astride the hipster nose. I don’t get it. Is being somewhat optically deficient in? Were my sight to diminish I should embrace the wearing of glasses wholeheartedly. Until it does, and I pray it won’t, I shall continue with nez au naturel.

Reproduced with permission. Julianpeterscomics.com

Click to enlarge

At times like this I wish I were an oak tree. As the years pass, I would barely notice these fools, and the world might seem like a consistent procession of the stylish.

Badger, Badger, Badger

Mushroom (look it up)? No, not on this occasion. However, the unrivalled Christmas markets of Germany have provided yours truly with an advance Christmas present from Mother dearest, in the form of a former badger on the end of a piece of wood, all the better to lather one’s face, my dear. There’s something rather medieval about these markets: there’s actually a fair bit of quality fare to be had, and not just the Chinese trash of lesser English varieties of the vaunted Weihnachtsmarkt. Add some Gluehwein, Baumkuchen, and a dose of snow, and one could really be immersed in an early Protestant Christmas (save for the German cabaret version of Wham’s Last Christmas, and some gay fire jugglers pretending to be French). A manly Christmas beckons: was machst du?
 

Weihnachts Zauber, Gendarmenmarkt, Berlin.

Hold On A Mo; or, Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

It is November and therefore the month of the moustache. This recent convention is in aid of prostate cancer research and awareness, and on that score it is unimpeachable. But what of the moustache itself? Clearly identified as a masculine symbol by the orchestrators of this movement, the moustache is nevertheless of uncertain historical status. At the very least, Jeeves was highly circumspect about matters of the upper lip, and that should give us pause. Of course, the ladies of the Wodehouse world thought otherwise, but they were universally awful and had poor taste. Further pause. By no means do I suggest that P.G. tips offer the best insights into the manly life, but then again, they aren’t far off.

Barbarian lipwear, c. 300 BC.

 

The first reported depiction of a moustache was on the face of a Scythian warrior. The civilised world at that point in time would doubtlessly have considered him a barbarian. This is an inauspicious beginning. Still, the Greeks coined the thing, calling it mystax, and her philosophers were no strangers to the cultivation of facial hair. Our modern associations with the hairy lip don’t help settle the thing, with everyone from Ned Flanders to Stalin to confuse us.

Flanders

Stalin

The most sensible words on the subject can be extracted from Household Words, via the pen of Dickens, in 1853. We must be on our guard, for Dickens was not averse to quackery and nonsense, and we can quickly disregard his arguments about the bodily expulsion of carbon and the body being thrown into chemical imbalance by daily chin scrapings. More persuasive are his allusions to the symbolic importance of the thing:

The idea that there existed a connection between a man’s vigor of mind and body, and the vigor of growth in his beard, was confirmed by the fact that Socrates, the wisest of the Greek philosophers, earned pre-eminently the title of the bearded. Among races of men capable of growing rich crops on the chin, the beard has always been regarded more or less as a type of power… The beard became naturally honored, inasmuch as it is a characteristic feature of the chief of the two sexes (I speak as an ancient), of man, and of man only, in the best years of his life, when he is capable of putting forth his independent energies. As years multiply and judgment ripens the beard grows, and with it grows, or ought to grow, every man’s title to respect.

Still, this deals in zones rather lower than that upon which we currently gaze, and Dickens hastens to draw our attention to the mistaken mystax of the nineteenth-century aristocrat. The association of whisker and rank was stamped into the popular imagination, so that after the revolutions of 1848 the Germans did away with their hairy adornments so as not to be confused for members of the old order. The Hungarians, however, continued to place great esteem in the thing, and famous Generals sported moustaches that might have been caught under foot. Despite this nonsense, Dickens averred that it was better for Englishmen to lay down their razors, for it would save them a year over a lifetime. And this, ultimately, speaks against the moustache, for it saves no shaving time, and indeed probably makes for fiddly shaving and, if you will, mo’ maintenance. It should be beard or nothing, and even then it should be tended and trimmed, just as the philosophers insisted.

I don’t aspire to any of these labels.

All this having been said, and with my former assertions about the joys of shaving in mind, I am attempting to grow a moustache, if only to demonstrate to myself that the judgements of history are not wrong. I doubt it will last, for Mrs. VB is not a fan, and there are certain acts that should not be compromised, as this fellow in 1855 discovered:

A caution during the approaching festive season to young gentlemen who wear sharp-pointed moustaches: Pretty cousin: ‘What a tiresome great awkward boy you are! Just see how you have scratched my chin!’ (Punch)

Ad Nauseam: Old Spice

Time was when Old Spice only needed a man on a surfboard and a chorus from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana to let the world know that this was a smell for seriously rugged men. I’m not sure there was ever any truth in that, but I had no objection to the way it was being pitched. Things have taken a crass turn.

The latest ad, aimed jointly at women who have complete control over the grooming of their men and at men who quiver at the sight of a superior musculature, demands that women make frequent comparisons to the men in their lives and the loosely towelled jock on the screen. Assuring women that they may justifiably give up hope that reality will ever compare favourably to his robust frame, the actor suggests that at least a real man does not have to smell like a woman, or worse. I have previously stated my opinions about the importance of the olfactory sense (Firing up the Ol’ Factory), but I don’t much care for it being sold in this way.

For starters, the appeal to women relies on an extension of the derisory stereotype put forward by the good people at Dodge (Ad Nauseum: Dodge Charger). Women will be wowed by such simple fripperies as tickets to a show (exactly what show is irrelevant because men don’t care about such things, as long as you’re happy and prepared to have sex afterward), diamonds, strutting about on the deck of a yacht, and the sexual connotations of horses. There is no substance in any of this, to the point that women are supposed not to notice that the man here is portrayed as arrogant, narcissistic and conceited. A pleasant aroma will take care of any and all the defects of character, it seems.

Second, are men thought so utterly hopeless that a direct appeal to them is futile? Surely a call to their self-respect and dignity would be better. As I mentioned previously, a man’s smell should be based on the reflection, ‘what does my smell say about me?’ If the answer to that question is simply ‘I do not make choices for myself’ then that is a shame.

The Buzz On Barbers

As a boy, I had my barnet barbered by Mr. Frank Shakespeare. He was among the last of a dying breed of local men’s hairdressers, with a large clientele of men who had never patronised any other cutter. He was desperately old fashioned, and as a child I hated going there. He knew two cuts: short back and sides, slicked back with a side part, and the crew cut. The place reeked of oils and treatments, old men and old leather. He knew all the talk, but then, he knew everyone inside out. No appointment necessary – everyone waited his turn – Mr. Shakespeare did a good trade. On a Saturday, you might have waited for two hours. I reminisce with a faint nostalgia. I don’t think he was a good barber, but he was certainly better than the all those who followed, with the buzzed bonces they created. Shakespeare lacked drama, but he had character.

Most men couldn’t care less about their hair. Many of those who do so spend hours making themselves look like a sticky greasy mess, except for at the back, which gets no attention at all. Well-groomed men top their image with an incongruous ‘messy look’, and elegance everywhere is confused with ruggedness. The occasional individual pulls off a look, but for each of these there are ten who labour under the misapprehension that mullets, pony tails, and clipper-art still look good, if in fact they ever did. My hair is the least likeable thing about me (I think). It is limp, straight, unruly, and seems deliberately to confound all attempts to make it neat. It does these things despite the treatment I furnish upon it, and despite its bespoke tailoring by the best barber I’ve ever had.

It’s not his fault, it’s mine. My itinerant nature means that I am in his neighbourhood far less often than my hair requires, but I am fiercely loyal. For the last four years I have had my hair cut only by Anthony, who now has his own salon – Metropolar – in the Montreal plateau. This despite the fact that for three of those four years I have lived in Berlin and in Boston. Yes, that’s a long way to go for a trim, but when you find your man, it’s hard to go back to the run of the mill.

What makes this the place and him the man? It’s like Shakespeare had a re-vamp. Vintage cutting chairs and an environment that screams character are mixed with cutting-edge style, techno-savvy presentation, and sharp skill with the scissors. It’s also genuine. There’s no faddish, up-to-the-minute, but wafer-thin, veneer. What you see is substantial, and it breeds confidence. It’s backed up by profoundly engaging conversation. Anthony is the barber philosopher extraordinaire. Best of all, it’s never rushed. I could cut my own meagre mop in fifteen minutes, but Anthony takes his time. An hour or more is not uncommon, and the time should not be underrated. A barber has a social responsibility – he doesn’t just cut your hair, he takes you out of yourself. A haircut is a holiday from your daily grind; a moment of luxury for, and indulgence in, yourself. Only a great barber can facilitate that. I only wish I could get there more often.

One to Blow and One for Show

Of handkerchiefs let Othello set out our stall:

‘To lose’t or give’t away were such perdition / As nothing else could match’ (Othello, 3:4:67-8).

The only thing more overblown than the noses of influenza sufferers is all this bunk about sneezing and coughing into one’s elbow or into a tissue that should immediately afterwards be discarded. These two options, seen side by side, beg an awkward question: if tissues are to be incinerated with haste, lest the evil germs fester therein and, God forbid, infect somebody, then what are we to think of the aggregate of viral nasties dwelling in the crooks of our collective elbows? Are we also to eject our clothing at the first opportunity? I have not seen any inordinate queues at the drycleaner, so I can only assume that so-called ‘polite’ sneezers bear hazardous arms. The days of romantically linking arm in arm are over, for in such friction, danger lurks.

The reality is that nobody who remotely values the clothes on his back would want to sneeze into his elbow, any more than he would wipe his nose on his sleeve. And tissues? A loose agglomeration of dust! Anyone who has accidentally left a tissue in a pocket to be laundered will readily tell anyone who cares to ask why such expensive, wasteful, papery frivolities are to be avoided at all costs. Let us instead remember the handkerchief. Confess – handkerchief! – O Devil!

Nothing is more elegant than a fresh linen hanky, neatly pressed and folded, and placed in a trouser pocket. If one has to sneeze or terminate an unwelcome sniff, and even the most refined of us do, then the handkerchief is a welcome resource. No one could frown on such a thing. In my experience, it’s best to have two on your person. One for your personal use, and one unused one, just in case you come across a damsel in distress. In addition to this washable, sanitary and elegant device, I recommend sparing a thought for the dress handkerchief. The one that is blown ought only to be seen when, well, when blowing. But there is also one for show.

A neatly arranged silk handkerchief is rarely seen in the top pocket of men’s jackets these days, but I cannot for the life of me think why not, since the pocket universally remains. A well chosen silk will lift any outfit, and given the current scarcity of such items, will set you apart as an individual with a strong sense of style. No novelties please (if you click this link, you should go forward to about the three-minute mark), but an idiosyncratic mix of colours and patterns is at the discretion of the wearer. It makes me smile whenever I see one; conversely, each time I see a sharp suit or blazer bereft of adornment I lament with Desdemona:

‘Sure, there’s some magic in this handkerchief: / I am most unhappy in the loss of it’ (Othello, 3:4:101-2).

Firing Up the Ol' Factory

Few of us know the meaning of true manual labour. The ideal manly musculature is now copied from Men’s Health, or worse, and fabricated not in the factory, foundry or mine, but in the gym. But the ideal’s origins were in the chiselled physiques of men whose daily labours would horrify most modern men. George Orwell, in perhaps his most erotic moment, described such men thusly:

They really do look like iron – hammered iron statues – under the smooth coat of coal dust which clings to them from head to foot. It is only when you see miners down the mine and naked that you realise what splendid men they are. Most of them are small (big men are at a disadvantage in that job) but nearly all of them have the most noble bodies; pronounced buttocks and sinewy thighs, with not an ounce of waste flesh anywhere… They may be any age up to sixty or even sixty-five, but when they are black and naked they all look alike. No one could do their work who had not a young man’s body, and a figure fit for a guardsman at that… (George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier).

Of course, nothing much else about these lives was worth celebrating, not least the foul stench the men carried around with them in between baths. Orwell, however much he admired the well-cut figure of an honest man, knew that ‘you cannot have an affection’ for a man who stinks: ‘in your heart of hearts you will hate him’. Orwell saw that the English were ‘growing visibly cleaner’, but how many men now really think about the emanations of their unlaboured physiques?

Whereas some women announce their presence through the overpowering musky sweetness that precedes them (men really don’t like this), as many men carry on as if sweat will pheremonically enchant the opposite sex. Orwell wanted us all to take regular baths. This much surely should now be taken for granted. But then what? What does my smell say about me? Does it complement me and project something about my character? Hopefully it is designed not merely to mask my natural odour. Noses, the least-used of our sensory organs, have been ignored for too long. I have fired up my olfactory sense. How pointless to forge a fine figure of a man if nobody wants to go near it!

Occam's Razor

I like to follow the principle that less is more, and that what there is should be meaningful. People chaotically cope with their lives, doing everything, but doing it all half-hearted or going off half-cocked. How much better would life work if it were simplified? Meaninglessness is avoidable by having less in life to endow with meaning. Parsimony is only the first step, however. What one has left over has to be enriched.

I have become jaded by the way in which male-grooming is marketed to men; actually, it seems to be (ineffectively) marketed to women: all vanity and preening. I don’t aspire to be (or to look like) a footballer. I do not need to think that the only reason to shave is to have my visage stroked by the nearest nubile young thing. I cannot imagine wishing my deodorant to conjure the impression among women that I am made entirely from chocolate. Furthermore, all these magical effects are supposedly reached with minimal effort, a paucity of grace, and a superfluity of razor blades. As such, I am about to take an atavistic turn, for the better.

If one has to shave everyday, shouldn’t the experience be embraced rather than resented? How to make it an enjoyable enterprise? How to make it something to look forward to? I am throwing out the multi-bladed, light-weight, plastic, charge-you-a-fortune-for-the-refills appliance. It is over-blown, over-hyped and utterly joyless. With it goes the shaving gel/foam in a can, taking with it the indignity of having to rub it on with your own hand. Spare me your gadgetry, and your ‘precision trimming blades’; spare me your indicator strips and your second-blades-to-catch-the-whiskers-the-first-blade-missed nonsense; spare me your vibrating fripperies. Spare a thought instead for the styptic pencil, and time-honoured methods.

To save myself a fortune in the long run, and to re-introduce the sense of ritual into the day-to-day, I have acquired a good-quality safety razor. It is the kind that takes old-fashioned razor blades, feels weighty and substantial in the hand, and works best with a lather worked up from fragrant French shaving soap and a traditional shaving brush. I am saying goodbye to overwrought disposable technology (shaving gear, like computer technology, seems to become outmoded every six months) in favour of timeless quality and an indulgent manly experience. If you need me I’ll be in the bathroom.