Man's quest for beauty

Man has always been besotted with beauty in his beau. But with the woman moving from kitchen to boardroom, the child becoming more mature – or cheeky – at a younger age and the inanimate object becoming sleeker and technologically advanced, it is only appropriate that man is no longer stuck to this hidebound, restricted notion of beauty. He now desires it for himself.

After writing about this phenomenon (in my usual incisive fashion) last fortnight, I met an old friend Sumit Chatterjee at his club. Chatterjee, careful about his appearance even in college, had become increasingly dapper and well-groomed over the years; therefore I was surprised to see his shaggy look today.

“What happened?” I asked. “Did you lose your razor? Are you waiting for an auspicious day to buy a new one?”

He looked annoyed as he softly ran his fingers around his stubble-bearing cheek and chin.

“I don’t use a razor any longer,” he said coldly. “I use a beard trimmer.”

“That’s not a beard!” I corrected him. “Grow it two more weeks; then call it a beard.”

“I have no intention of calling it a beard,” Chatterjee said. “It’s fashionable stubble. Have you typed ‘Brad Pitt images’ into Google?”

“Do I look like the kind of person who would type ‘Brad Pitt images’ into Google?” I asked.

It was a rhetoric question meant to convey biting sarcasm, but Chatterjee looked me up and down seriously and answered: “No, you don’t. But you should. Most of Pitt’s images show him stubbled like this.” Once again he stroked his chin lovingly. “Fashion magazines say that women find men with facial stubble attractive. In fact in Vogue last year…”

“Talking about Vogue, have you been following the English Premier League?” I said to veer Chatterjee away from this gruesome topic. He loved football.

“Yes!” he said and began to talk about Manchester United, his favourite team. He extolled the team’s performance for a few minutes. Then he frowned. “But I’m fed up with Alex Ferguson.”

“But he’s a great coach,” I said.

“No!” he said sharply. “He’s sickening. Have you seen him lately on television?”

“Yes,” I said, puzzled. “He seems to be doing fine.”

“Have you seen his looks, man?” cried Chatterjee. “As leading manager of England’s leading club, he is a humiliation, along with Queen Park Rangers’ Harry Redknapp! Both turn up for prestigious games in team-issued suits or unwieldy parkas. And the ties! Did you notice the horrendous tie Ferguson wore during last Saturday’s match?”

“No,” I said. “I noticed United won. I bet you’re the only one who noticed his tie.”

“New York Times noticed it!” he said vehemently. “Let me show you what I read just today in the IHT.” He went to the club lobby and returned with a copy of the International Herald Tribune. “In this article called ‘Fashion Weak: Give That Coach’s Outfit a Red Card’, Sarah Lyall says, ‘most coaches tend to gravitate toward one of three looks: Italian Playboy, 1970s East German Apparatchik and Slob in Track Suit.’ It’s a disgrace! The only saving grace for Ferguson is that he is not Arsene Wenger. Listen to this: ‘at a recent Arsenal game, Wenger encased himself in what has unfortunately become his signature garment: a fluffy, puffy, oddly elongated, sausage-like parka that surely keeps him warm, but that also makes him look like a caterpillar in a sleeping bag.’”

“But is a coach’s dress important?” I asked.

 “What’s more important?” Chatterjee looked horrified. “The whole world is watching these fellows. Ferguson should learn how to dress from Tottenham's Andre Villas-Boas, ‘No. 2 among best-dressed international men’, and José Mourinho of Real Madrid. Do you want to know what Dan Rookwood, style director at Men’s Health U.K., has to say on the subject?”

“No,” I said.

He told me anyway: “He says: ‘The top clubs all have designers throwing beautiful clothes at them and the whole world watching them, and still so many of them manage to look cheap and nasty. They look like…’”

“How’s your tennis going?” I said. It was time to change topic again. Last time we met, Chatterjee had mentioned he was taking tennis lessons.

“Coming along nicely,” he said. “In fact, it’s time I bought myself proper gear. Will you help me?”

The next day, at the sports shop, he wanted to select shoes first, so I suggested Wilson. He tried on several, examining himself each time in a mirror: straight, sideways and, using a cunning combination of two mirrors, his heels. When he finally selected a pair, I took him to choose shorts and T-shirts. He went through all the aisles; then turned to me.

“Where’s Wilson?”

“Wilson doesn’t make shorts and T-shirts,” I said.

“Do you think I can wear just Wilson shoes?” he asked.

“No! You’ll look silly running around the court dressed only in shoes. Besides, most condominiums wouldn’t allow it. You need shorts and a t-shirt.”

 “Exactly. But how can I wear Wilson shoes with another brand of T-shirts and shorts?” he said. “Have you seen Nadal do that? Or even Nishikori?”

I pointed out that these gentlemen are paid good money to exhibit consistent brand behaviour but he was adamant. So I helped him select Nike shoes, shorts, T-shirts, socks, wrist bands and…

“You don’t need a head band,” I said, “with your short hair.”

“James Blake,” he said tersely. “Crew cut and head band. Looks cool.”

With attire in arms, he approached the cashier.

“But you haven’t bought a racquet yet!” I said. That’s why I thought I had come along.

“Oh, no need to waste money on that,” he said, “I’m using my wife’s old racquet. It’s got a blue shaft – will look good with this gear.”