Stop, OK. Just stop. Put the razor down now. There is much to much of this going on. Can we just stop kicking hair to the curb? I’m looking at you Mr. Perfect Body on the cover of that romance novel. Yes, you with the six pack that looks like it’s lumpier and smoother than a Styrofoam egg bottoms carton! That goes for you Fabio worshippers!
I recently came across a review for a book. The big gripe? The reader was unhappy with the blaring character faux pas. No hair. The character in the book was a fuzzy chest haired Paul Bunyan-outdoorsy type guy who wore flannel, blue jeans, and work boots. The cover? The torso of what looked to be a 20 year-old hairless model fit for Abercrombie & Fitch advertisements. The reader alleged this issue got in the way of her vision of the character. Shame.
It shocks and saddens me how women choose to see hair as a nuisance or a male body has to be defined as being smooth as a baby’s bottom with abs that stick out like mutants, pectoral muscles which look like they were inflated with an air pump, and arm veins looking more ominous than images of lightening strikes. What is with this hatred of hair? Maybe it’s just me. I was born in the ’70s and grew up in the ’80s. I was one of those kids who appreciated Tom Selleck’s fuzzy carpet of a chest on Magnum P.I. There’s countless other male specimens who passed my eyes feasting on their furry or partly furry bodies. Do you really think I was a gal who dug Don Johnson in Miami Vice? No. Philip Michael Thomas in those nice half done shirts did it for me. I am the type who, when getting the past issue of a ’70s magazine would check out the ads, say something like Playboy (not too often in my case). Yes. The interviews are incredible. So are the ads. Those nice beverage ones, cigarette, fashion, cologne, you name it. A favorite of mine are rock stars (no surprise). These would include many guys who could rock the fuzz, shirtless, half unbuttoned, all the way open, with leather jackets, velvet jackets, jeans, wearing just a robe, shorts. I’m not too discriminating in taste. That’s not to say I like a man thoroughly covered in hair, or back hair. Abs? No. Never cared much for those. That little fuzzy belly? Mmmmm! Just a nice slender body with hair would do for me.
Far too many times I’ve read in romance novels (not that I look at too many) how there’s this fascination in writing genital related musings in love scenes. I personally don’t like to go that far. What about the chest? No love? That’s where his heartbeat is. Shouldn’t that count for something?
I think manscaping is a true evil. It’s a crime against all man-kind. Why wax that hot body? Is he going to be the next Gerber baby? Metrosexual. Ughh. Don’t. Don’t go there. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines it as, fastidious grooming, among other things. That’s an obsession to be as hairless as possible and shaping eyebrows without a single hair out of place. Hey, I hear artist, Frida Kahlo laughing beyond the grave. She wasn’t afraid to rock the unibrow in all of her paintings. Rebel!
Do you really think the reason Sean Connery claims THE true James Bond title is because he was debonair? His Scottish accent? The way he used gadgetry? How he wore a tux? How he romanced women? No!! It’s because he was a manly man. A virile specimen sporting a cornucopia of chesty follicle pride. Now, can you imagine somebody having a character that resembled Mr. Connery in his prime, but then showing the cover of a baby-bottom soft, wax and lacquered in oil fellow with beaming pecs and washboard abs (On a side note, I still don’t get how they associate a washboard to human male abs. I can only think of the underbelly of snakes, male or female resembling this texture.)
Don’t you dare tell me the manscaping is a ritual of gay men. Anybody remember George Michael. When he came out of the closet, he still had his body fur intact. How about bi-sexual indian-english sex god, Freddie Mercury. He of Queen, blessed with an operatic voice, epic presence at Wembley Stadium, beautiful dark eyes, charming overbite, and sporting a vast spread of dark haired body goodness. That argument is null and void.
Another thing, and yes, you were probably waiting for me to say something about writing since this is a writing blog. Besides baby soft book covers, reviewers, especially male ones seem to have a problem with men who have hair. Maybe it’s folicle envy. These pelt pushers having something the reviewers were not blessed with. So, what do they say? “He’s sporting more chest hair than Austin Powers.” Duh! Obviously, this non-blessed hairless cretin can’t seem to understand that the guy he was picking on was naturally born that way. Austin Powers is about making fun of people in the ’60s and spy films. A made up character. For shame if it was directed towards Mr. Connery and his dark angora physique. The actor who played Austin, Mike Myers, is hairless like a naked mole. End of story. End of rant.
Let’s talk about the other stereotypes. . I can do without the chains, large gaudy gold or silver medallions, and definitely NO tattoos. It gets in the way. You remember that guy with the nice mermaid tattoo. She once used to look pretty, then the hair was choking her. Hair all over the place. Out of her mouth, fins, gils, body. Drowned in hair. Poor pretty mermaid. She didn’t have a chance. The war of hair and tattoos should not be an issue. It’s one or the other, never both.
Arm hair is another thing. Hello, Paul McCartney? Bruce Springsteen? Two guys of the furry limbs. Don’t touch it…with a razor that is (petting may be permitted).
A huge pet peeve of mine is the constant need to call a mustache a pornstache. What are you, a five years old watching Boogie Nights as your sex education? I won’t even question people’s parenting skills, because I’m not a psychologist. It’s a mustache. Plain and simple. Above the lip hair. Yet beards get lots of love. Like the chest hair, some guys can look good with mustaches and others can’t.
So, now that you know my feelings on the fuzz, don’t be overly surprised if a character in any of my stories rocks the fur. You will know. That’s a guarantee.
Happy trails to you!