Kathryn Flett : Gender
While I struggle by with my shampoo, cleanser, facial scrub and one pot of posh moisturiser, it has come to my attention that my thirtysomething male lodger possesses an expensive and extensive range of unguents that rehydrate, soothe and psychoanalyse.
But does the man who uses a bit of butch moisturiser (and boy is it butch — it comes in a grey pot) have anything in common with the man who is drawn towards ruby red lipliner and eyelash tongs? Yup, it’s a slippery slope. After all, men love make-up.
They don’t love ours very much, apparently, but the merest mention of a fancy-dress party will have both Kevin-the- construction-worker and Piers-the-pension- fund-manager diving for the mascara wand sharpish. Kevin will take a macho approach, slapping it on all over and ending up looking like a weird performance artist; while Piers, with his razorblade cheekbones and model-girl legs may, like Ru Paul, make a better girl than those of us with the prescribed combination of chromosomes.
Still, a little healthy flirtation with transvestism is, for the most part, just a chance for men to get in touch with their masculine side. Yes — masculine. When a bloke wears a smear of your Paloma Picasso Mon Rouge, what he’s really saying is: “Look at me, I’m all man!” He’s not identifying with you, he’s identifying with your otherness. Maybe it’s my age, but I don’t think full-blown make-up for men will ever catch on, in just the same way that (despite Jean-Paul Gaultier’s best efforts) men’s skirts never will. Early 1980s nightclub loos were full of blokes who always nicked your extra-hold Elnett to spritz up their bouffants — though eventually they got themselves several hundred tattoos and a more rock’n’roll powder-puff habit.
There may, however, be room in the bathroom cabinet for a little light sunscreen foundation and an eyelash-tinting kit, but these are the make-up equivalent of kilts.