The Problem with Urban Males

For several years now, we've been inundated with the term "New Urban Male," and as a trend, it's as virile as ever. From web sites to jewelry lines, the needs of the NUM dominate the men's fashion world. The young men are paying more attention to their overall appearance, and what could be better than that?

At first the phenomenon focused on the grooming habits of 20 to 40-year-old men, who took longer than their dates to get ready for events, perhaps having a facial with mani-pedi before dashing home to shower with scrubs containing tiny particles of exfoliating ingredients.

Then they packed on a masque, something like cake frosting with a men's fragrance and a soft green hue so as not to mistake it for Mother's ritual. . . this masque works wonders, spread thickly over the face and hands, then drying to a consistency of bathroom caulking, pulling impurities from the freshly scrubbed complexion.

The boys could follow up with pore-shrinking activities, cold splashes, hot stones, collagen-packed nutritive creams, eye cream, throat cream, forehead cream, wrinkle cream. . . until finally, patting the skin gently dry, they could air-brush a nice bronzing finish onto the entire face, adding a pearly coppery glow, looking like a young George Harrison. . . after he'd been sand-blasted to the age of pre-adolescence.

Don't get me wrong--I love a well-groomed male, especially when they layer up their fragrances-- a nice whiff of Ralph Lauren is absolutely tantalizing. It's just that lately, the men are prettier than I am, and I don't pay good salon dollars for that. And they're not so young these days.

Older male faces glare from the magazines. . . movie stars with long blond-layered tendrils draped over baby's-bottom foreheads, perfectly airbrushed cheekbones perched directly below "piecy" sculpted hair, permed, prepped and packed with "product."

They're very attractive, fascinating even, but it takes a bit of adjustment: one does not expect to open "Vanity Fair" and stare directly into the spit-polished 12-year-old face of Sylvester Stallone, who must be 60-something now. They've gone too far, methinks. Michael Douglas with his perfect gray mane, Armani jacket, and the cheeks of my 8-year-old grandson; Conservative Party leader David Cameron, posed jauntily, fluorescent with facial creams.

Even more jarring, Nick Nolte, whose craggy, weather-beaten features were once signatures for him, poses, slouched just so, open-shirted with the ubiquitous bad-boy stare, but his skin has been rubberized, buffed and polished like a peach. The final blow, the absolute limit! Here is beefed-up Mickey Rourke with golden highlights trickling down, outlining his powder-puffed forehead. This image does me in. I put my face next to Mickey's, holding up my compact, stare for a dark moment, trying not to pass out.

I chase screaming to the bathroom, turning on the magnifying mirror. Oh Mama! My skin looks more ragged than Mickey Rourke's! And no amount of ex-foliation will correct this. Well, maybe a little avocado with egg whites and oatmeal. . . you think? Perhaps Clinique's freshening lotion with moisture and a layer of Vaseline? I now resemble that lady from "Throw Mama from the Train" slicked with vegetable oil!

Breaking the speed limit and running 3 stop signs, I skid into a space at the salon for a facial. The woman wraps, slaps, kneads, beads, splays and sprays and finally applies a sticky layer of what feels like glycerin, and then she allows me to apply make-up as I see fit. Silly woman.

OK. I'm equal to this. Foundation, blush, shadow, liner, brow pencil, mascara, cover-cream and lipstick. Finishing with some pearl-moist amber glow, I pause and inspect, trying not to glower, which causes wrinkling. . . hmmm. . . that's not half bad. . . I'm between one of the Carradines and Regis. Adding dark glasses, I can just about slink into the supermarket with a minimum of self-consciousness.

Unloading my purchases in the check-out aisle, Meryl Streep's perfect ivory countenance gazes serenely from the cover of "VIPs" like the Virgin Mary's fairy godmother--she's exactly my age.

"Hold it a minute!" I yell to the dubious check-out girl. Sprinting toward the cosmetics department I lunge into the L'Oreal aisle--Diane Keaton looked pretty perky in that copper-cream serum commercial.

"It just melts into the skin," she conspires. . . then she winks, adding, "And we're worth it." Here it is! Gorgeous paper box over gold round jar. Forty bucks--but if it'll make me look better than my uncles, I would sincerely appreciate it.