On Men Having No Taste

My fiancee spends a fair bit of time asking me the same set of questions: What should I wear? Does this go? Which do you like better? So when I heard recently that only 4% of women trust the opinions of the men in their lives regarding what to wear, well frankly, I was shocked.

Since my information source on this fact is a call in radio contest titled 'Battle of the Sexes', please understand that I will not stand by the number under scrutiny. But there it is - 4%. And a quick survey seemed to confirm it. I would understand if it were the question - "Do I look fat in this?" Self-interest is a very powerful motivator and no one should be trusted to counsel you against their own self-interest. But what to wear, what looks good? Who could possibly be a better judge? Or at least a more relevant judge?

"Don't be crazy," I was told, "women dress for women." "Men have no taste."

Whereas women, left to their own devices, will demonstrate all sorts of tastes. I have to believe that straight women do themselves a great disservice in dressing for each other. (Especially those who complain that their partners doesn't show enough interest.) What better evidence do I need to highlight the follies of women dressing for women than pedal pushers - pants designed to make all women look short and frumpy. Men have a simple name for them - floods.

I suppose the 'men have no taste' comment would be easier to swallow if men didn't dominate the fashion industry. Women will let famous men con them into wearing the craziest god awful outfits - thank you Fashion File. But let us assume that the "men have no taste" rings true. Doesn't that really mean you are just spinning your wheels when you dye your hair three colours and spend an hour blow drying it straight or curly (whichever it wasn't). If we don't notice, why do you bother?

Don't you think that maybe you might just want to find out what we do like? I caution: be prepared for an appalling lack of vocabulary. We may not know if you've had your hair layered or frosted. We may just call it a shirt, when clearly it is more of a top. But like art and wine, we don't know much, but we know what we like.

So try asking new questions, like, if we have favourites. You might be surprised. But if we say, "These jeans and this t-shirt." Don't just think we don't have any taste. It is our taste. Anyway, you probably look pretty damn good in that outfit.

My Friend's Combover

I have a friend, let's call him Cal. Now, Cal had a forehead with plans to be a five. His face launched two pincer attacks that made camp when they met over the crest. In doing so, they had isolated a lonely island of hair - front and center. While his counter attack involved growing his hair longer, I'm not saying that he'd grown the hair on the left side of his head to a length capable of being draped across his crown in thin, straggly strands designed to fool small children into thinking that he had a robust head of hair and simply an unusually low part. He had not sunk so low as to fear the wind. But looking back, it was there - the edge, the last stop to Combover.

We talked about it. I mean we all talked about, just not with Cal. I suppose the question is why not and I think that the answer is the key to the great combover question - 'Where are their friends?' How do they get to such a bizarre state? Do they wake up one day thinking that they'll start growing their hair until they can pull the wool over our eyes? Or does it slowly evolve from silly to ridiculous? Either way, who stands idly by? Why do they think it works?

Being taller than Cal, I could see the thin strands of hair fanning out from the lonely island like reeds flattened under foot. But from his point of view, the extra length worked. What could I say? He was so sensitive about his hair. It was taboo. And it wasn't a combover by any means. Or at least not yet. It was just a little extra to balance off a little less. That's what I told myself.

Then I discovered the special hair products. Imported hair products. A wax that thickened hair. "It works," he said. And there it was. Like a beam of light shining down and bouncing off his balding scalp and straight into my eyes. It had hit me. This was just the begining. He would keep nurturing the few survivors while the attrition wore down the rest. More and more imported supplies would flow in as the battle escalated. Until one day there would be nothing left but a sorry fringe that, in the shower, hung limply to his left shoulder. Then what could we say. It would be too much of a taboo to say anything.

I had to do something. I'm not much of a man of action, but here it was: Push had come to Shove. Remember that chief among things that friends don't let friends do is wear a Speedo. But a close second is to sport a combover. Third of course is drink Coors Light and heaven help the man who completes the trifecta.

So I said it. "It's time Cal"

"What do you mean it's time?"

"The island, Cal. It's time to taker down. Clippers, Cal. It's the only way."

"Nooooooooo."

It would have been very straightforward, except that people lie. And Cal sought those people out.

"I don't know. It looks fine."

"It may not be time yet."

Nice lies. Little lies. But lies that nearly left Cal on a beach somewhere, half naked in a Speedo, drinking Coors Light out of a can, laughing unaware that the wind was lifting his hair like a car hood. Those people nearly ruined a man's life. I hope they can sleep at night.

You see a man in his state will cling to anything. Even the phrase 'not yet.' He'll hear the words 'it looks fine' and believe it. Ha! Where anyone rational knows what 'Your hair looks fine' can mean. But rational doesn't import hair thickening wax.

Desperate, I took aerial photos of the war waging across his scalp. I took them to a small band of the truly honest people in his life and implored them, "We must make a stand here and now." Armed with clippers and outnumbering him, he succumbed quietly.

And now people say, "You should have done it ages ago."