Life, Leisure, and the Pursuit of Manliness

In today’s society, we men have been conditioned to believe that image is everything - that style somehow outweighs substance in our quest for status and stature. Yet, in matters of grooming, we’ve become a society of short cuts. As men of aspiring culture and taste, we have no problem shelling out large sums of money for a tailored suit, a vintage VSOP cognac, or a box of Montecristos, yet we snicker at the fairer sex for laying down comparable amounts at the day spa or hair salon. However, as the dot-com boom and its egregious effect on workplace style recede, a level of taste and sophistication has begun to creep back into men’s fashion. Hence, now is the perfect time for successful, upwardly mobile guys to step out of their rushed routines, turn off the cell phones, and rediscover the concept of grooming as luxury. And the good news is, you can do it without sacrificing your masculinity. I recently decided to take the plunge - or at least, the first few steps - into this new territory.

There was a time when the idea of a manicure would make most guys run for the hills. But the fact is, offering a well-manicured hand to shake at a social function will make a better impression than one that’s been neglected. After all, why dress like a CEO if your nails make you look as if you’ve been digging ditches - without a shovel? For my first-ever manicure, I went to the Away Spa, a posh den of healthy living and leisure in New York’s trendy W Hotel. I was greeted by Lana (whose business card read “Nail Technician”) and immediately knew I was in good - ahem - hands. As the small room’s speakers piped in some relaxing slow jazz, she worked away at one hand with a jasmine-scented oil massage, while the other soaked in warm water. (I was tempted to make a joke about soaking in dishwashing liquid, like in the old Palmolive TV commercial, but thought better of it, and she probably wouldn’t have gotten it anyway.) She told me I had good cuticles (now that’s one you don’t hear every day) as she went about scraping off the little gritty bits of skin that one doesn’t generally notice. Only after both hands had been thoroughly soaked and massaged did Lana go for the clippers, then the file, working both with a surgeon’s precision.

As the clear finish was applied, she told me that about half her clients were men; truly an encouraging tidbit to hear as one’s hands are attended to with implements previously encountered only in a woman’s purse. When we were through, Lana led me into the Tea Bar outside the spa area, which offered up cookies and flavored water as my nails dried. I sat there relaxed, yet feeling oddly underdressed for my own hands. Predictably, even as a big red sign on the wall trumpeted “No Cell Phone Use,” an attractive Asian woman sat in the lounge, chatting loudly into her Nokia about her stock portfolio. She was still yakking away as Lana led her into the spa. She just didn’t get it. Even here, I realized, some people refuse to learn how to relax. It was a moment of clarity that inspired the next step of my health and leisure quest.

While professional nail care is slowly emerging from the “don’t ask-don’t tell” cellar among many males, the sublime masculinity of the professional barbershop shave ritual has never been questioned. It’s simply because most of us are so busy - content to devote five or ten minutes to scraping our face in the morning, and walking into the office with those tell-tale bathroom tissue squares on our nicked-up faces - that we rarely make time for this time-honored tradition. I decided to make the time at The Art of Shaving on Madison Avenue, an upscale Barber Spa founded in 1996 by husband and wife team Eric Malka and Myriam Zaoui, whose clients include such well-groomed celebs as Billy Joel, Bill Clinton, and Samuel L. Jackson. I signed on for the Royal Shave, a treatment that begins with a hot towel and a facial massage with a balming pre-shave oil that protects the skin and softens the beard. The shaving cream, applied leisurely with a badger-tip brush, was comfortably warm. Our typically cold cream in a can, I found out, creates closed pores and hardened hairs, two main culprits behind perpetual shaving nuisances like razor burn, ingrown hairs, and rashes.

Then came the straight razor, and while my overactive mind briefly flashed to a Sweeney Todd scenario, any paranoia was quickly put to rest as my trusty, sure-handed barber went to work like - well, like an Artist of Shaving, actually. Once with the grain of the beard (this is the sum total of most of our daily routines), then a re-lathering, and another pass through with the blade going across the face, to complete the perfect shave. Needless to say, this double pass of blade on skin left my pores screaming for mercy... until the bracing application of alum block solution to anesthetize and close them up. Then came the hot towel and the majestically named Royal Mask, to soothe and calm the ravaged skin, and the cold towel and final shave balm to complete the experience. The name is truly appropriate: I defy anyone not to feel like royalty after sitting up from this nearly hour-long session. When I walked out to the Manhattan streets and felt the breeze on my face - I’d call it as smooth as a baby’s bottom, but I don’t think any newborn has ever had skin this pampered - I ran my newly-minted hands over the skin and felt not just proudly well-groomed but several years younger besides. Lots younger. As in early teens, when I thought my freshly shorn beard was never going to grow back again.

Don’t worry, though. The beard eventually comes back. The nails grow. And in a short time, you can sit back and do it all again if you like. After all, who couldn’t use a little pampering now and then? In any case, it’s now clear to me that maybe all those women are onto something after all. Now if we can just encourage our significant others to take a similar interest in some of our own little luxuries... like cigars and cognacs...