There’s something about a mirror that transfixes most men. Not that woman aren’t mesmerised with their mirror image but that the female preoccupation is more private, a boudoir ritual. With males, anything that holds the mirror up to nature will do and they will gladly amputate anything before admitting it!
My fascination with the male gaze began when I lost my innocence to a rather strange act of voyeurism. Parked on a busy road, with darkened windows rolled up, I saw to my amusement two young men leaning against my bonnet. At first, I thought that they were acting ‘fresh’ and waited with bated breath for the next move so I could vent my feminist spiel on them. To my disappointment they were happily oblivious of my presence behind the shady glass, so I settled down for some bucket seat entertainment.
One of them sauntered up to the window, adjusted the side mirror and then bent his knees to peer into it. He turned from side to side, checking his side burns or lack of it, styling some oily strands over his weathered collar, all the time humming a tune.
Then there was a flick of his wrist, and a dive into his back pocket, which had me worried for a second. Presto! There he was brandishing his styling weapon with as much flourish as Bond, his gun. I knew that we had reached the thrilling climax of this art movie, when he wet his forefinger and styled his forelock with a flourish.
Just as I thought I was going to have another fetching display of male vanity by the next fop, my friend arrived and angrily yelled at them to park their bodies elsewhere.
Since then, I have been happily subverting the male gaze with my “I spy with my little eye routine” and have found that there are three types of mirror-gazers. The first are the metro sexual narcissists who will actively seek out a mirror or monopolise one. Their self-absorption crowned with interesting rituals makes them look like high priests of a mythic cult of male beauty.
The next lot, the Alpha Romeos generally love what they see and play to the gallery. You will find them in mirrored hallways and stairways, looking at you looking at them. As if on cue you will notice a casual, effortless sucking in of breath to hold wobbly things in place, a nonchalant flexing of muscles, a broadening of the chest and a swagger to give any strutting peacock worth his feathers, some tough competition.
Out of range of a mirror or a glass, they revert to being your average limp biscuit.
The last category, has my sympathy, they are generally men who are shy or don’t like what they see but cannot deny their fear and fascination. You will notice how they will, like ferrets, steal a quick, furtive glance before they casually correct the image that has startled them. Past the mirror, there will be a smooth pat on the head to cover a patch or a nervous swipe of a sweaty face with a handkerchief or a quick pulling up of the waistband to cover an errant bulge.
As I write this, I can spy with my myopic eye, my 8-year-old striking a pose in front of his full length mirror. Without doubt he belongs to the first category. Mirror, mirror, on the wall…