Branded Male

Parting shots

I don't part my hair: I have a longish crop that falls where it chooses. My conversation with the hairdresser rarely goes beyond the French for "a trim, please". But the other day she suggested I might try a parting, and asked me which side I wanted it on. I was surprised, because anyone looking at my hair can tell it grows vaguely to (my) left. Which means the parting would have to be on the right.

In the end we abandoned the idea, because I haven't combed my hair since about 1987 and I don't intend to start now. Shower and go, that's my philosophy. But curiosity impelled me to see what the internet had to say about hair partings and the significance thereof. And guess what I discovered? Your hair parting affects your personality. Or vice versa.

According to a May 2008 article in Fortune magazine, many successful CEOs have their hair parted on the left. That's because left brainers are dynamic types who understand arithmetic. Creative right-brained people, on the other hand, tend to part their hair on the right.

I began to wonder what would happen if I defied my own nature and parted my hair on the left. Would I become less creative, but more entrepreneurial? Would I rush out to get a job in finance (not that there are any left) and take out a loan for a BMW? Would I swap reading Russian novels for a subscription to...well, Fortune? After all, hair is influential stuff. We all know that Samson came a cropper after his locks got the chop. And as the immortal Danny says in Withnail & I: "Hair are your aerials. They pick up signals from the cosmos and transmit them directly into the brain. This is the reason bald-headed men are uptight."

To reassure myself that the "right parting equals failure" theory was utter bullshit, I looked up some of my heroes online. And, yes, Gregory Peck, Cary Grant and Steve McQueen all parted their hair on the right. 

Of course they are actors, which proves nothing. But at least it means that if I ever get an urge to part, I will be in good company.

Fragrant opportunist

The best salespeople are great storytellers. This occurred to me the other day when I visited Le Comptoir de l'Homme, a Saint Germain store devoted to men's grooming products. It opened back in April, but I visited for the first time on Saturday. It was the perfect day to be a flaneur, with the deep blue skies and gentle warmth of late summer and a vague promise of autumn in the air.

Come to think of it, Promise of Autumn sounds like one of the fragrances on sale at the boutique. It also stocks all sorts of shaving foams, moisturisers, shampoos and pampering products. Originally I only went there for something to keep my hair under control. That was until I met Elisabeth.

A sophisticated lady, slightly older than myself, Elisabeth (pronounced "Elisabet" in the French manner) had obviously been recruited for her mixture of maternal wisdom and Parisian chic. Not only did she fix me up with a light grooming cream for my unruly hair (Leonor Greyl), but she also pitched several brands of fragrance: all while I happily sipped the expresso provided.

Storytelling was the key to her strategy. Talking of Hammam Bouquet from Penhaligon's, she told me that it was the favourite fragrance of the film director Franco Zeffirelli. He personally saved the firm from ruin when he heard it might be going out of business - thus depriving him of his signature scent. Another Penhaligon's favourite, Blenheim Bouquet, was worn by Winston Churchill, she added with a twinkle, having caught on to my accent.

Perhaps realising that anglomania was not my thing, she introduced me to a nice little French brand called Etat Libre d'Orange, which has terrifically bold packaging. Its Jasmine & Cigarette not only has a wonderful name, but it smells delightfully decadant: just the thing to wear of an evening with a smoking jacket and jeans. "Created for women but adored by men," Elisabeth assured me.

I also liked - and bought - Bergamote by The Different Company, the outfit created by Hermès "nose" Jean-Claude Ellena and his daughter Celine. Apart from the sublime scent, the thing that clinched the deal was the solid, angular class flacon designed by Thierry de Baschmakoff (according to Elisabeth).

Even once she racked up a sale, Elisabeth drew my attention to a range of shaving products from Baxter of California. "Once used by Steve McQueen," she added, casually, knowing the effect that icons of this nature have on men's wallets. I managed to get out of the door without cracking, still several euros lighter than I'd imagined when I entered.

And what's more, I'll be back.

There won't be blood

I wouldn't want to be one of those bloggers who constantly write about products sent to them by hopeful PR agencies, but something intriguing appeared in the mail the other day. It was sent to me by a reader who works for Tailormade, a small sales and marketing outfit here in Paris. At first, I was attracted by the retro packaging. And then I read that if you dab the stuff on a shaving cut, the bleeding ceases instantly.

The product is called Bloc Hyalin, and it's basically a block of alum. Known as "alun" in French, this is a chemical compound: its full name is hydrated aluminium potassium sulfate (thank you, Wikipedia). As you may know, it has been used for years as a natural astrigent and aftershave. One source on the web even claims that the ancient Egyptians considered it a "shaving essential".

And no wonder: an alum block is said to calm razor burn, close pores, cauterise cuts and fend off shaving rash. Applied early, it'll combat pimples. It has even been used as a deodorant, because it kills off the bacteria that cause the unpleasant odour. The product I've been sent is 100 per cent natural: the packaging informs me that there are synthetic versions that don't do the job as well.

I'm quietly chuffed with my alum block, and I'll certainly keep it around for use the next time I nick myself while shaving.

The Officina Profumo Affair

I've never had a cologne to call my own. Like most of us, the first male fragrance I ever sniffed was my dad's after shave, which was called Denim ("For the man who doesn't have to try...too hard," drawled the ad). In my teens, a girlfriend encouraged me to splash out on Fahrenheit. Later, I upped the ante to Acqua di Parma. More recently, I've been sporting the occasional dab of Cerruti Si: it was sent to me as a freebie, but the Branded Female decided she liked it. I wear it so sparingly that it has taken me three years to empty the bottle.

Now minus my Si, I've been casting around for a new odour. I had a vague idea that I wanted woody and sophisticated rather than fresh and boyish, but nothing appealed. That changed this weekend, on a brief trip to Antwerp, of all places. On a quiet back street, we stumbled across a branch of Officina Profumo - Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, the ancient Florentine apothecary established in 1612. I was instantly captivated by the tiled floor, the air of sedate calm, and the racks of old-fashioned bottles glinting with amber and citrine potions. Not to mention the discreet approach of the curly-haired Italian assistant.

Having pegged me as a potential client, he extracted a box of tiny cologne samples from under his glass-topped counter, and wafted each of the eaux under my nose. I was attracted to frangipane, half-convinced by Cuba, but finally seduced by Santal. This has a heart of sandalwood, obviously, with a hint of bergamot. The Branded Female approved. And as half of the appeal of the brand is its extravagantly vintage packaging, I bought some shaving cream unprompted.

Acqua di Parma, Cerruti Si, Officina Profumo: a pattern is forming here. My sense of humour is British, my taste buds are French, but apparently I like to smell Italian.

Close shaves in Rome

I started the New Year watching the entire first season of Rome on DVD. As I live in France, the only way of catching up with TV series in their original language is through marathon viewing sessions.

I'm not going to waste time telling you what a sharply-written drama this is, as plenty of critics have already done so. But I was inspired to do a little research on male grooming habits under the Roman Empire. Apart from odd exceptions (like the hairy Gauls) all the men in the show are perfectly clean-shaven, with great haircuts and clean fingernails to boot. Can this really have been the case?

Yes, it turns out. In Roman times, an abundance of hair signalled a lack of culture. Wealthy Roman men employed their own personal barbers - or "tonsores" - who cut their hair with iron scissors and shaved them with iron-bladed razors. Others were barbered on the streets or in stores called tonstrina. The all-too-frequent cuts were sealed by perfumed ointment or spiders' webs soaked in oil and vinegar.

Despite these discomforts, few men would have ventured out in public without first having been shaved: Caesar certainly never did so. Beards were sported only by philospophers or those in mourning. Barbers also had a social function, as men gathered there to chat and exchange news.

The Roman working day began at sunrise and finished at around noon. The Roman male then spent the afternoon at the communal baths, where he was scrubbed, massaged - and plucked. In fact, Roman chronicler Seneca lived so close to a bath-house that he could hear men yelping as their nostril and ear hairs were ripped out.

Many Roman men considered themselves snappy dressers, too. The toga started out as a modest rectangle of cloth, but it grew in size almost at the same rate as the Roman Empire. The correct draping of a toga - with its decorative pleats and folds - eventually became an art form requiring the assistance of at least two slaves. Logically, then, the state of your toga indicated how wealthy you were.

Colour was also important. White, for instance, signified a devotion to Minerva, the goddess of wisdom. Red - the colour of Mars, the god of war - was worn by legionnaires. Purple was worn by the aristocracy, because purple dye could only be obtained from the crushed shells of a rare mollusk found off the coast of Abyssinia. This powder was more valuable than gold.

Although Ovid believed that simple elegance was the mark of a man, there was no shortage of perfumed Roman dandies. They sported intricately draped silks that came along the silk route from China, or by sea via India. Some historians believe that the Romans were the first to transform clothes - until then, simply means of keeping warm or dry - into expressions of status, individuality or allegiance.

The Romans invented style. Somehow, it doesn't surprise me.

(Sources: Elegance à la Romaine, Arte TV documentary; Daily Life in Ancient Rome: The People and the City at the Height of the Empire, by Jerome Carcopino and Henry T. Rowell)  

A suntan from Santa

This morning I received an unexpected early Christmas gift. The Branded Female took delivery of a package containing a bunch of men's skincare products, sent to her as a freebie from some PR agency or other. As she's unlikely to test them out for her own blog, she passed them on to me.

The products are from Laboratoires Didier Rase. One of them is an "Anti-Ageing Emulsion" (for some reason the French prefer the word "emulsion" to "cream", which gives me the unfortunate impression that I am about to paint my face), while the other is a "Bonne Mine Emulsion". In French "une bonne mine" (pronounced "meen") denotes a healthy complexion. In other words, what I've got is a bottle of fancy moisturizer and some fake tan cream.

No problem with the anti-wrinkle stuff: I don't have that many lines, and in any case I never expect these concoctions to work, so I slapped it on with abandon as I would any other moisturizer. The self-tan was a bit more daunting. I've always preferred to tan the natural way. In fact, I have an old-fashioned suspicion of the chemical variety. But as we're off to Marrakech after Christmas, which provides a good excuse for looking a bit bronzed, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I smeared the gloop on evenly, not forgetting my neck and ears, as instructed.

The question is, how will the experiment work out? Will I end up with a face like the side of a Florentine palazzo: off-ochre with hairline cracks? Or will I resemble a Hollywood matinee idol? Then there is the unnerving George Hamilton possibility.

So far, so nothing. My skin feels hydrated and faintly taught, but otherwise it remains distictly British (with perhaps a soupçon of olive thanks to my mixed Huguenot-Jewish ancestry).

The only noticeable difference came when the Branded Female kissed me on the cheek as a reward for making breakfast. "Hmm," she said, wrinkling her nose. "You smell funny."

Yes, but so does suntan lotion.

Monsieur's bedroom

So if you'd lived in 19th century Paris - and you'd been a gentleman of a certain substance - this is what your bedroom would have looked like. Interesting, non? It manages to be both Spartan and flamboyant at the same time.
The room in question belonged to Edouard André, a banker and art collector who lived with his wife, the artist Nélie Jacquemart, in a stately hôtel (or manor house) off the boulevard Haussmann. The 1875 building is perfectly preserved, as I discovered when I dropped by this weekend.
Various things are of interest here, not least the pale pink upholstery - a bold choice that somehow works when combined with the dark chocolate tones of the rug, the ivory walls and the grey panelling. It's the equivalent of wearing a pink shirt with a navy tie. Note the telephone on the oval bedside table: the latest accessory for a dynamic businessman?
But the part you can't really see is probably the most interesting. Off to the right of the photo is a vast mirrored dressing room. In front of the mirror - which takes up an entire wall - are crystal decanters of cologne, essential oils, soaps and other unguents. The sparkling containers alone would put a modern metrosexual to shame. And yet our man was a Protestant financier who had been awarded the Legion d'honneur (the fleck of scarlet at his lapel gives that little fact away). As I mention in my book, it's only for the last 100 years or so that men have been encouraged to equate masculinity with a lack of interest in personal care. Edouard André had powerful people to impress, and he needed to look immaculately turned out.
You'll also note that he and his wife had separate bedrooms, as was common at the time. When you're forced to seduce your own wife every evening, you certainly don't want to let yourself go.

Groom for improvement

What do men get up to in the bathroom?
Because the first chapter of my book will concern male grooming, I thought it was time to 'fess up to my own morning routine. I've never quite been able to determine whether I am, in fact, a vain bastard - or whether all men spend as long primping themselves as I do, and just don't like talking about it. If any of my tens of readers would like to respond, I'd be interested in hearing from you.
Anyway, here goes. Unless I decide to skip shaving, I confront my pallid morning face in the mirror, splash copious amounts of hot water over it, lather my chops with Sensitive Shaving Foam from Biotherm Homme, and take it off again with my grandad-style 1950s safety razor (as described in an earlier post).
Then I hit the shower. This involves Dove hydrating soap and, occasionally, Biotherm body scrub to slough off the dead skin that the magazines assure me has covered my body like a pie-crust. Maybe they're right. At least I no longer have a spotty back.
The shampoo varies a bit. Until recently I was using Body Shop Ginger Shampoo to keep the dandruff at bay. Then my hairdresser told me that it was ravaging my scalp, which she found to be the delicate pink colour of poached salmon. She recommended Kérastase Bain Protection, which apparently "cleanses sensitive scalps and limits the risk of future hair loss". Sold! Occasionally I combine it with a dollop of l'Huile d'Olive (olive oil) conditioner from L'Occitane.
Once out of the shower and dry, I clean my teeth. That done, I check my shaved face for nicks and pimples and, if I find any, zap them with Blue Herbal Astringent Lotion from Kiehl's. Then, like a good metrosexual, I moisturise. For a long time I used Clinique's M-Lotion. When I interviewed the founder of new-ish Parisian men's grooming range Skeen+, I started using their Soothing Fluid Balm, with aloe vera and vitamin E. More recently, Laith Waines of The Refinery successfully converted me to their Revitalising Moisturiser. As you can tell, I'm a sucker for a charismatic interviewee.
I can't really get excited about underam deodorant, so I use Sanex Dermo-Protector, which doesn't eat holes in the environment. Now it's back to the hair. If I'm working at home all day, I just leave it. If I've got a business lunch, I coiff it with a lick of Body Shop Slick brilliantine, which makes it look smart and faintly glossy. For evenings or fashionable company I use American Crew Classic Wax.
And that's about it. From a marketing point of view, two things strike me. First of all, I often use things that are recommended to me, personally, by experts. Of course, the packaging plays a role too. Almost all these products have minimal, grey, white or tan packaging, with retro and/or dramatic sanserif typefaces. In fact, they look like instruction books for power tools, which given the target market is hardly surprising.
Anyway, I've deconstructed my bathroom habits. Now it's over to you.

Something for the weekend

To London, where I'd set up an interview with Laith Waines, co-founder of male grooming spa The Refinery. Until January 2000, when the first branch of The Refinery opened in an Edwardian townhouse in Mayfair, men didn't exactly have a vast choice of places where they could go and get themselves pampered. In fact it was pretty much a case of a visit to a traditional barbershop, for a once-over with an open razor, a hot towel and "something for the weekend, sir?" Laith himself recalls trailing around posh spas in a fluffy bathrobe in the wake of his beauty treatment-addicted girlfriend, feeling self-conscious as the solitary male. It turned out that the former investment banker wasn't alone in his yearning for a men's spa, and The Refinery was pretty much an instant hit.
Now it has three branches in London and a new one in Tokyo. During our interview, Laith mentioned that the company had just taken over the traditional barber in the basement of Harrods. When I showed a spark of enthusiasm, he immediately got on the blower and booked me in for a haircut the very next morning.
I showed up with a hangover and was delivered into the dextrous hands of Suzanne, who transformed my growing-out mop into something satisfyingly sharp. The setting for all this was stunning: the purest Art Deco, with black marble sinks and seats that looked like they belonged in Flash Gordon's space rocket. Not only that, but Suzanne's head massage killed my hangover stone cold dead.
I felt so good that I lingered in Harrods far longer than I should have done, and ended up buying a pair of Prada shoes. What can I tell you? My battered trainers just didn't seem to go with my new haircut.