There's a new brand of male in town, the 'urban woodsman'. But where did he come from and why?
There are plenty of good reasons to hate the latest male fashion archetype, that annoying guy more commonly known as the "urban woodsman".
That's right, he's the boofy chap wondering around in the flannel shirt, thick denim and big boots, complete with de rigueur beard and possibly long hair, too.
The archetype was arguably first named by New York magazine in January of this year; the publication informed hirsute hipsters about the best places to get jeans, checked shirts and designer axes, promising "a primer on the plaid-clad male archetype, plus classes on the necessary skills (butchering, riflery), and five ways to nail the beard".
But even before the look was given its own title by that particular publication, wild and woolly fellows had been popping up unexpectedly in all sorts of odd places. Look, there he is: that hairy guy behind all the cleancut models in the perfume advertisement. And there he goes again: in a photo shoot in Italian Vogue, or on the cover of a magazine, or looking out of place (but pretty cool) in a perfectly tailored suit. Soon, no fashion editorial or advertisement was complete without its own bearded manchild.
The best international events heaved with bearded wonders: Brad Pitt grew his chin hair, Joaquin Phoenix caused a fuss when he covered his big lips, as did vampire movie star Robert Pattinson (how successful they were remains debatable - as one critic put it, "Phoenix should be held down and group-shaved by a gang of foam-wielding barbers").
All of a sudden, it seemed that being hairy and messy, looking like you just came back from a 10-week camping trip - or maybe Grizzly Adams in sneakers - was the ultimate male fashion statement. Hipster parties around the world started to look like lumberjack conventions.
Cultural commentators have come up with all kinds of interesting reasons as to why a fashion-conscious guy would want to stop shaving and showering. Firstly, it is a backlash against the metrosexual, they say - the metrosexual being the urban-dwelling chap who was given cultural permission to use moisturiser, polish his shoes and care about clothes.
Generally, the anti-metrosexual is the retrosexual, the man who returns to unkempt male classics of yesteryear, cultivating not just facial follicular activity and slovenly toenails but a manly interest in such pastimes as wood-chopping, bicycle repair and whiskey-drinking.
And then there are other explanations. It's the economy, say some, suggesting that financial insecurity makes men long for a return to good old-fashioned hunting, fishing and subsistence farming.
Its gender-bending androgyny, say others, arguing that when ladies wear the pants and indie boys look like girls (and, stripy T-shirt alert, often dress like them too), some fellows prefer to prove their manhood, and pant-wearing abilities, by emphasising traditional male qualities. Exactly. Like beards and plaid shirts.
Some pundits suggest politics may provide the answer. All those lumberjack-look-a-like conventions could be a sign that some men are rejecting consumerism - as sold to them by a beauty industry that, metrosexual style, increasingly targets the masculine customer - and embracing a back-to-nature look, and sensibility. That is, they think the urban woodsman is an environmentally friendly creature.
And there are also some pretty practical explanations: the increasingly casual, or freelance and self employed, nature of our workplaces means that a bearded wonder in a chequered shirt is free to roam where he wishes, armed only with his laptop. And when it comes to beards, or stubble, shaving technology has advanced so much that a man no longer needs a clean shave. As the electric shaver faces obsolescence, there are tools that allow for year-round stubble.
Another more controversial - and slightly wacky - theory has it that, in a culture where there are no longer any real alternatives (Goth, punk, indie: it's all been done) what could be more alternative than looking like what many consider the stereotype of a terrorist?
And finally a hypothesis far less fringe than the latter: the lumberjack-wannabe is actually all part of the late 80s to early 90s grunge revival. There's a fashion revival of some sort forecast for every 20 or so years. This is when the generation that grew up with whatever cultural trend due for revival, takes creative control, as well as gains spending power. They then wax nostalgic about the bands, movies, icons and looks they discovered in their callow youth. And as we all know, during the grunge era there was a lot of long, greasy hair, big boots and slacking around in old plaid shirts.
So, yes, all of the explanations for evolution of the urban woodsman make sense. But none of that explains why everyone is so keen to make fun of the poor guy. Maybe it is because so many urban woodsmen already look alike. They can't help it: it's all that facial fuzz. Maybe it's because big, bushy beards are easy to laugh at. Or they remind you of Santa.
Or maybe it's because many of these uber-masculine, retrosexual, financially frightened, grunge-nostalgia buffs are enthusing about the curvaceous lines of a designer axe (yes, these axes do exist) but the only thing they might actually do with one is chop up some old furniture.
This is one reason why this look is a particularly tricky one for New Zealand - we're already a pretty rural sort of country and, outside of major metropolitan centres, the guys who look like woodsmen often are. Like Sex and the City cocktails, this sort of thing might go down a treat in New York - but it isn't necessarily a high point of the year for the blokes down the pub in Rangiora.
So perhaps in New Zealand this fashion trend will just translate into a slight swing away from the metrosexual archetypes, and take us one step further away from all those nasty David Beckham-esque fauxhawks, those turned-up collars reeking of cheap aftershave and bad tattoos.
Whatever happens to the urban woodsman in this country, one good thing has come out of all this and that's the beardy revival. For centuries, the chin wig and cheek curtain has been a mark of virility, wisdom and/or honour. Everyone from the ancient Greeks to the Jesus thought they had merit. Recent research suggests that many of us still agree.
In April the Journal of Marketing Communications, an international journal of peer-reviewed research into marketing and corporate communication, reported that participants in a study believed men with beards, albeit tidy ones, selling products like mobile phones and toothpaste were more credible and trustworthy than their clean shaven counterparts.
Yes, there's just something about a hairy face.
"It's like the boy became a man," said one woman of a friend's newly bushy visage.
"It's like patting a pony," says another three-day-growth-and-more enthusiast. Most of us would never have thought of that. Nonetheless, combine all that with a bit of grunge and a smattering of manly dirt, and, well, who could ask for more?
