Austin has its share of metrosexuals. Maybe more than its share; I don’t get down there often enough to take inventory. But Daphne has seen plenty already:
There was one disconcerting note in my beauty palace travels today; men. They were clients in every place I visited. Men tanning and bronzing. Men getting their nails buffed. Men coloring their hair and asking about highlights. Men waiting patiently for botox and lasering. Men, reams of men, getting beauty treatments. Not gay men, big old straight men with wedding rings, most in their late thirties through early fifties, driving convertible, midnight blue Beamers.
It was more than wrong, it struck a repulsive nerve. I appreciate a tanned, well honed male with clean nails as much as the next girl, but I’d rather see that guy busy with a belt full of tools, driving a backhoe, or working his mojo on an athletic field rather than sitting patiently in a beauty parlor, reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair, while waiting for his curly back hair to get ripped off by a softly murmuring piece of Asian compliance. These guys were probably oblivious to the fact that their manhood was diminished the moment they entered my women’s realm of vanity.
Go dig a ditch, plant the back forty, fix a carburetor, build furniture, coach a team, write a wonder, run a race, ride a horse, help a needy kid or hit the bike for a cross country spin. Behave like you own a bagful of testosterone.
And that goes for you too, Matthew.