Is there any greater style abomination than a fair-skinned British male sporting summer stubble? If you live on Mars, you might have evaded the news that Prince William appeared on a video celebrating the UK’s Olympians while adopting a look you might call “convict chic”.
If you zoom in on his chin you’ll note an erratic salt-and-pepper sandy covering that puts me in mind of lichen. As a former agony aunt, I wanted to say: “I see what you’re doing there Wills, compensating for the lack of hair up top by growing a wild lawn on your chin.”
The main trouble with this look – favoured by some of the world’s most ridiculous men, like Andrew Tate – is you can’t help thinking of a boiled egg thrown into a marsh. It works for no one, with the possible exception of burly security guards in LA – who should look like they pour liquid testosterone on their cornflakes.
It’s also worth bearing in mind that William, according to Prince Harry, suffers from pronounced beard envy after having to shave off his face rug in 2008 to comply with army regulations for serving officers (who can’t be seen in uniform while bearded). But Harry got a special exemption from the Queen for his wedding to Meghan which, if you believe every word of Spare, drove Wills wild with jealousy.
I too have noted that beards can prove way too contagious among siblings; my older brother Justin went the full Catweazle some years ago. Not wanting to be left out of the facial fur fun, my younger brother now resembles a D-list David Beckham (Becks also appeared on the Olympian support video, with growth so luxuriantly brunette I suspected the colourist’s hand).
These men may think they look rugged and carefree, like New Forest versions of Grizzly Adams, but back here IRL they look like stockbrokers who’ve just been through unpleasant divorces and are now kipping down on friends’ sofas. The fact that twentysomething males – notably those living in London’s Hoxton – scrape by looking like D’Artagnan after a pint of Baby Bio does not mean those who are forty-plus can get away with it.
The fact is most British males are too pale and mousy to sustain any kind of bandit-bonce as they head towards mid-life. Your standard-issue British guy simply can’t rock this jail-break vibe. I simply don’t buy the notion that William’s been living off-grid in a handmade shelter on the Sandringham Estate all summer.
Also, if he’s anything like my older brother, he’ll be combining the look with cargo shorts and sensible sandals. It’s been said many times – because it’s the rock-solid truth – UK males don’t know how to dress for summer.
These men may think they look rugged and carefree, but back here IRL they look like stockbrokers who’ve just been through unpleasant divorces and are now kipping down on friends’ sofas
They emerge from winter blinking into all-too-brief heat, when they retrieve some bermuda shorts and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt they bought 20 years previously. When I look around the men I know they’re confused about whether their basic look is Glastonbury dad, pentathlete-in-training or ageing surfer.
When they put down their razors you know they’ve given any notion of grooming a summer break and are probably also trying to avoid kissing their wives. Because womankind is divided fiercely on this issue. I have never kissed a man with a beard and amongst my circle of friends for every woman who enjoys snogging a hedge, there are three reaching for the strimmer before they’ll lock lips.
This may have something to do with having Scooby-Doo as a formative influence, where Shaggy was the misfit-loser and Fred was the obvious hunk. Don’t even start me on the dread “bearded man” in The Joy of Sex who did more for prolonging virginity than the entire Catholic Church (if you know you know).
It is clear to me that the only western-born men who can get away with sexy stubble have Latin blood. Antonio Banderas and Javier Bardem are the poster boys for this look and all my supposed qualms about facial hair evaporate whenever they’re on screen.
Frankly, I think it’s better when men like Prince William just accept they can’t do summer style and run headlong at the absurd. I’m thinking about a clean-shaven Benedict Cumberbatch playing beach tennis in pale blue surf shorts decorated with bright red crows or even Beckham (yes, him again) in that famous daft sarong. Eccentricity is our vibe and UK males are world-beaters when it comes to diving into the dressing-up box.
I attended Wilderness Festival in the Cotswolds last weekend where middle England was out in force; I spotted several men in dresses, a few dressed as moths, many in head-to-toe sequins and my old friend the poet and playwright Murray Lachlan Young in a bright green 1970s Adidas tracksuit gifted by a friend.
But kudos to the few who dispensed with clothing altogether, like the Naked Rambler. I think most style mavens would agree a cheery naturist is the only kind of half-baked beardy we need to be seeing this summer. And please can everyone else acquaint themselves with a razor?