Assuming you’re straight, think of a man you find attractive.
Now imagine him frowning in the mirror at saggy jowls, sitting for hours having his foils done, starving himself, spending hundreds having his face injected and hiding away until the tight, puffy look has gone. Imagine him carefully applying serums, lotions, painting on layers before he walks out the door. Imagine him squeezing himself into tight underwear to hold in his gut, squatting over the bath to pull out every last hair from his undercarriage, glossing and bleaching and plucking and worrying.
Imagine the same man: wrinkles and greys perhaps, but clean, fit, healthy, well fed and well rested with an outdoor glow.
Who is more attractive? Who is (probably) happier?
Society’s done a number on us.
This isn’t self-care. So much ‘self-grooming’ is an undignified, expensive, pitiful waste of time.
Fair play to you if you genuinely enjoy it and it makes you happy, but for most (including me, in the past) it comes from a place of fear.
I look after my health and move my body for the enjoyment of it.
I look after my hair, wear good comfortable clothes that fit well and suit me, but I refuse to waste anymore time on the rest of it. My motto now is, if my husband isn’t expected to do it, I don’t either.
The consequence of that is that I look my age, but am comfortable in my skin, which I have always admired and wanted to emulate more than clinging to youth.