Our sermon for today is called Manliness in America; our text is Newsweek, 8:20:07.

Measuring 6 feet 3, with chiseled pecs and a bushy beard, George seemed like a model of manliness. Yet two years ago the 47-year-old Virginia businessman (who declined to give his full name to protect his privacy) decided he didn’t look quite macho enough. So he went to see Dr. Jeffrey Epstein, a Miami hair-restoration surgeon, to have 3,000 hair follicles ripped from his scalp and transplanted into his face, chest and belly.

He wasn’t satisfied. So a year later he returned to get an additional 2,400 grafts done. “I could still have another surgery and not be completely covered,” says George today. “I’m very pleased, but 2,400 grafts is not a very hairy chest.”

George’s quest for maximum hirsuteness isn’t as unusual as it may sound. He’s part of a growing group of “retrosexuals” — men who shun metrosexuality, with its often feminine esthetic, in favor of old-school masculinity.

The only vestigial trace of old-school masculinity here is George’s refusal to give his full name — although even that may be misleading since his shyness comes from a desire to protect his privacy rather than from old-fashioned shame. But then shame, in a retrosexual, is too much to hope for.

And so my doubts about George’s excellent adventure (the surgical equivalent of another George’s invasion of Iraq) do not arise from considerations of taste, shame, dignity, or the degeneration of self-respect into self-love. In 21st century America we have moved beyond all that.

No, my doubts are purely procedural in nature. To begin with, the follicles on George’s scalp are programmed to grow indeterminate hair rather than the determinate hair that grows naturally on human torsos. This is to say that his transplanted hair will just keep on growing. And growing. And growing.

Think about that for a minute, George. You’ve entered into a long-term commitment like taking on a puppy — in this case a Yorkie. From now on you’ll have to have your chest clipped regularly if you don’t want to trip on it.

And the hair that normally grows on a Caucasian chest is not only length-limited; it also has a tendency to curl. This means that unless you’re African American (and somehow I don’t think you are), those thousands of transplanted scalp hairs are going to hang off your chiseled pecs like so many wee, limp noodles. Is this likely to attract the ladies? (Or the gents, if you’re inclined that way?)

If your answer is no, you will want to add a permanent wave to your already elaborate hair care routine. This will be difficult, since permanents require wrapping hanks of hair around rollers. Your thousands of relatively widely-spaced chest hairs will not comprise a dozen or so hanks, George, but rather many hundreds of mini-hanks, each with its tiny, adorable roller.

Did this consideration ever cross your mind? I’m guessing not. Probably, like that other George, you never learned about the Six P’s in basic training: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. I see little but trouble down the road for both of you. Although there might be a way out of this mess you’ve stumbled into, George from Virginia. It may strike you as perhaps a little too, well, metrosexual, but I don’t see any other solution. I’m afraid you’ll just have to lay in a supply of Lady Gillettes and lather up those pecs.

Try to look on the bright side, though. At least it’s cheaper than crawling back to Miami for a transplant reversal and putting up with Dr. Epstein’s ill-concealed grin as you send another of his kids through college.

Posted by Jerome Doolittle at August 29, 2007 07:22 PM

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