Notions of Masculinity in a Postmasculine Grooming Era

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When my friend Craig first pointed me to this blog, a new project of his, I told him it was stupid. In fact, I believe I referred to The Dopp Kit as “like the section of Esquire I skip over every month.”

It’s not that I don’t care about my appearance. It’s just that — like every decent Midwesterner — I feel horribly uncomfortable admitting that I care about my appearance. It doesn’t matter how manly today’s lotions and gels are; they’re still lotions and gels. And decent people just don’t talk about that kind of thing.

In the ensuing weeks, however, I’ve found myself checking The Dopp Kit more than I expected. And when I read Brent’s brilliant essay on lake shaving — what could be more masculine than that? — I felt compelled to add to the discourse.

Which brings us to the crux of the matter, the heart of the thing, the brass tacks: barber shops and why they remain culturally relevant.

I have this debate with my girlfriend all the time. She doesn’t get it, but I cannot, I explain to her, get a haircut at a salon or a stylist. I must go to a barbershop, and the experience must include:

• A barber pole outside, preferably a real one not one that’s just painted on the window.
• A barber, preferably an elderly gentleman whose political beliefs are far to the right of my own.
• At least one dead animal on the wall. It can be a fish — I’m not particular — but I recently got a haircut from a guy in Idaho who had a stuffed cougar mounted on the wall. Great haircut. And, yes, he had killed the big cat himself and eaten it. It’s like pork, he said.
• Sports magazines.
• Hot shaving cream.

There’s logic in this list of must-haves, even if it’s not at first apparent.

Most importantly, experience has taught me that I tend to get better cuts from these kind of chop joints. I have, under trying circumstances, gone to salons and stylists, and the results have been invariably disastrous. I tell them from the jump that I don’t want any kind of product in my hair. They usually ask how I can style it without product. And I usually just tell them not to worry about me; I’ll be fine. What I really want to say is, “I don’t ’style’ it. It’s my fucking hair. I get it cut and then leave it alone for another three months. I comb it with my fingers, for christ’s sake.”

And, of secondary import, I like the barbershop because it’s manly. And I am not. I am of a generation of “men” who don’t know how to build a bookcase or repair an engine. I am normally OK with this. But sometimes I get these vestigial urges toward old-school masculinity. I want to howl at the moon, roll up a pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of my grease-stained T-shirt and drink so much whiskey I can barely make it to my job at the docks the next morning. But make it I will, because I’m a man and a man does his day’s work, damn it.

Anyway, I think that’s why I like barbershops.

—Pat

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Tags: barber shops, grooming, masculinity