“Shaving for men is not the same as makeup for women, you know, even though they are similar rituals on the face of it, so to speak. Shaving is a revelation, a paring off of layers of dirt, dead skin, and unwanted bristle. It lays bare the man, and he can’t hide from himself. But makeup is a pasting over of the cracks, a concealment— not a conceit, because makeup can only work with what you’ve got in the first place. It’s a guessing game, but one that intrigues me. I love women in makeup. I want to know what’s underneath but without removing the pancake, mascara, lipstick. No, they’re not dolls. They are actors in an ancient theatre, real people playing fantasies, actors playing characters wearing comic or tragic masks. I am as fascinated by the mask as I am curious to remove it. So I stroll up to that unisex hairdresser someone recommended. I want a short back and sides like my dad; I want it really short, so short that no one will be able to resist running her hands over my hair, against the direction of growth, to feel it bristle busily under her palms. No one, thank god, can resist that bristle. Yeah, I want it to cut and bristle; I want clean straight lines. Then up the West End. Oxford Street, New Bond Street, Knightsbridge? Yeah, let’s go to the posh places, get good clothes with a good cut, dole out a bit more dosh because it’s going to be worth the extra. I want to cut a clean straight line. I want a suit, a nice tailored sharp man’s suit, and a smooth pair of boots I can see my face in. I want a crisp shirt that feels like it crackles when I move. Listen to me: sharp, cut, bristle, crisp, crackle; like breakfast cereal. I’ll make so much noise that they’ll hear me coming before I arrive. I want to cut a clean straight line.”
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