A while back, I snorted with derision and snarled about $400 jeans that are permanently marked with fake dirt. The idea is to make the wearer look like he or she works for a living. When combined with the companion $1,200 wornout workboots, said britches ensure that the wearer needs to work for a living, since Mom and Dad ain’t going to support the pursuit of that cultural arts degree forever.
I thought that perhaps I had seen the pinnacle of stupidity in men’s clothing, not to mention the pinnacle of stupidity in men who would wear such things. It’s bad enough that entire swarms of wannabees have attempted to grow beards, into which they spray glitter and hang little jewels and Christmas tree ornaments. By the way, these particular wannabees ain’t usually even worker bees, but drones, who want to nothing more than hang around, have sex, and feed off the largesse of others. But that’s a column for another day.
Along with glittery beards and fake dirt, there are the idjits who have grown their hair long, in hopes of looking like a cast member on Vikings or one of those other manly historical dramas – then coiled said hair into a neat little bun. Manbuns actually are considered mainstream now; I think they make the wearer look like a poor, loving grandmother has become trapped in her hippie grandson’s body, and is trying to escape through the least-used portion of his body, the brain.
Now, in the spirit of full disclosure: I have worn things in my beard, namely bones, lighted cannon fuse, 18th century glass trade beads, pens and pencils, and a small knife, as well as multiple baby squirrels, kittens and possums. My beard has also been oiled down a few times, usually with bear or beaver fat, to repel insects.
I have very long hair, and my wife regularly pins my braid atop my head, usually while she was cleaning a wound on one shoulder, or massaging my aching neck and back.
I doubt that those exceptional circumstances make me a fashion hypocrite.
Caustic coiffure critiques aside, I thought men’s fashion couldn’t get any more ridiculous than manties (men’s underwear that match ladies undergarments), designer dirty jeans and worn boots, and manbuns.
I am now, however, convinced that I can never be surprised again.
A fashion designer has created the “Romphim,” a bright, summery, fun, one-piece outfit for men. Now, rompers look cute on little kids, and can range from pretty to downright distracting on women.
But for a guy? They just make him look like the kid who gets beaten up on the playground by the kid everybody else beats up on.
All I can figure is that the designer of the Romphim wasn’t loved by his mother, or never got a participation trophy for making it through the day while still breathing.
Lest you think I am eliciting a curmudgeonliness beyond my years – which I would take as a compliment – one must take into account that I was the center of vituperation in college when one of my columns cast a similar stink-eye on my classmates who, under the influence of various professors, did their level best to dress, look and act like the hippies that the professors may or may not have been in their youth. I admit, I did normally dress better for school than most of my professors, but that’s neither here nor there. I had just as little regard for fashion-frenzies back then as I do now. The difference today is that fashion trends are not simply subliminally sold via the velvet hammer of a Madison Avenue ad agency, but are instead shoved into the public eye with all the finesse of Godzilla with a bellyful of bad sushi.
I really can’t see any practical purpose for a Romphim. If one is going to swim, one should wear shorts or swim trunks. The short sleeves of the Romphim don’t do a dang thing to prevent sunburn. The fabric likely ain’t strong enough to hold up to a few hours in the seat of a lawn mower, much less a tractor, and the legs are too short to even consider wading in a berry patch. I don’t even want to think about what wearing a Romphim would be like on horseback.
Of course, in the interest of full disclosure, it could be I am partially responsible for the Romphim, albeit I had no idea anyone other than my wife knew this little fact until now.
It was in the Magic Month of trapping season, when deer season was over, but the fur was still prime. We’d had a few warm days during the previous week, but the weekend turned perfectly brisk again.
I was halfway through a 60-trap line, when I went to reset a baithole with my own secret concoction called Hello Kitty. It’s irresistible to bobcats, thus the name.
Hello Kitty is very sensitive to heat, and the tightly closed jar had been in the sun in the back of my truck. When I opened it, the result was – spectacular. My coat, vest, shirt, and pants were spattered with a weather-resistant combination of super-special ingredients that include stuff I shall not discuss here, except to say most folks think they stink.
I didn’t want to spread the love throughout the cab of my truck (which was also my daily driver) so I stripped down to my base layer – a faded red union suit. This particular “Farmer Brown” had given way at the knees and elbows, so I just trimmed off the ragged edges. The final result was something like a Victorian man’s bathing suit. I ran a few more sets in isolated areas, then drove home to change clothes wearing nothing but boots, my cutoff union suit, a pistol belt, and my much-beloved furry trapping hat.
My little burlesque routine occurred in the middle of 500 or so acres of January nothingness, but all I can figure is somebody spotted me via satellite and thought, “Hey, that hairy man in the field has some kind of great fashion sense!”
Men have enough problems when it comes to balancing looking respectable and being comfortable and practical. Designers shouldn’t try to complicate matters with things like manties, manbuns, and beard glitter that are designed to make men look like ugly women.
I actually doubt that the designer of the Rompher was inspired by my middle-aged, biohazard-necessitated act of fashion practicality.
But if I find out that’s the case, I intend to find that designer’s playground, corner him by the sliding board, and open a hot bottle of Hello Kitty.
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