His haircut was pristine; the ‘fro so perfect it formed an immaculate shape of a sphere like a dark, miniature globe. A hapless bird would be excused for mistaking this masterpiece for a nest. You could tell he’d taken a lot of time putting his outfit together; the beige jacket complimented his cashmere sweater to a T. Even from the opposite side of the carriage I could tell he smelt of roses. I was afraid of him. In fact, he was my walking nightmare. I gritted my teeth in despair, sitting on my hands pretending to be cold, hoping he couldn’t tell that I was trying to hide the burgundy varnish chipping away from my nails. Speaking of nails, his were divine. This was my first encounter with the metrosexual man and, sadly, it wasn’t to be my last.

The term, coined by a homosexual journalist, alludes to men who: 1) are concerned about their appearance 2) display many of the lifestyle tendencies of stereotypical gay men and 3) are heterosexual. There is something unnerving about knowing that men can be effeminate and straight at the same time. James Baldwin, in The Fire Next Time, eloquently captures my feelings at the time of meeting Mr Perfect-Fro: “any upheaval in the universe is terrifying because it so profoundly attacks one’s sense of one’s own reality…heaven and earth are shaken to their foundations.” Though Mr Baldwin refers to a different, more pressing issue his words aptly describe the stark realisation that something profound had taken place whilst my head was buried in a Mills & Boon paperback. My encounter with Mr Perfect-Fro got me thinking: What happened to the traditional man? He used to be gruff, rugged. A little stubble on the chin was never a sin; it was a sign that he’d had no time to partake in aesthetically pleasing duties since his mind was occupied by the necessities of a man’s life: bringing the bread home. Granted, this is very much a romantic view of the traditional man but (but being the operative word) before the metrosexual man graced the scene with a face so smooth you’d mistake it for a baby’s bottom, women like me could clutch at (by the last straws) the idea of men who are unaccustomed to night cream and who open doors for the opposite sex.

When at last we reached our destination and Mr Perfect-Fro was mesmerised by his reflection in the tube window rather than rescuing me from the throng of commuters at Oxford Circus Station, I knew the bubble had burst. And with it my long-held beliefs about men (and myself in relation to men) had disappeared into that dark gap between the train and the plat form. Women are partly to blame for this new phenomenon. After years of protesting for equal rights both at home and in the workplace; after whining at our men to ‘open up’ and get in touch with their feminine side and after complaining to our girlfriends that our partners make for terrible shopping-companions, is it any wonder that we are now left with an unrecognisable male species who is not afraid to share our cuticle cream and tell us that our bum does indeed look big in those jeans? First there was the ape, than man, and now the metrosexual man.

Men have come out of the evolutionary process more feminised than ever before. What we wanted was a man who would be happy to share the household chores and who can comprehend the necessity of owning forty pairs of shoes, whilst maintaining the idyllic standard of being a ‘real’ man: essentially, looking after us and making us feel secure. In our mistaken belief that we can ascribe men with certain ‘female’ attributes whilst leaving his traditional ‘male’ traits intact, we have created a double-edged sword. Though women appreciate conversations that have nothing to do with football or the size of his car engine, there is something unsettling about a man who can talk about clothes with relish. Moreover, it is heartbreaking to know that should there ever come a time, as in the movies, when I am struck down by a terrible illness and fall at his feet, he will hasten to lift me up not out of concern for my safety, but to ensure relationship that his Paul Smith shoes remain unscathed.

There is nothing intrinsically wrong with the metrosexual man; it is how he makes us feel about ourselves that is worrying. If the metrosexual man is unashamedly upping his game when it comes to looking good, how does that reflect on us? How long can I go on neglecting my nails before I am caught out? And, worst of all, will it ever be possible to look good when he will always look better? Getting your hair done at your local hairdresser and a smidgen of Revlon eye shadow was once enough to get you noticed and perhaps bestow a few compliments but the new breed of men are not to be reckoned with when it comes to the art of beautifying one’s self. Metrosexual men know their Manolos from their Barratts and they’re not afraid to say it. I didn’t know it then but my encounter with Mr Perfect-Fro was to be the beginning of a spell of paranoia. I always seem to be bumping into metrosexuals: places that were once testosterone- free zones are now happily accommodating men but this hardly makes it any easier to come to terms with. On my last trip to the Iman beauty counter I was accosted by a heterosexual man who casually told me that my eyebrows needed a little more shaping and gave me directions to a beautician he swore by. I was mortified! Beware ladies, the metrosexual man isn’t coming; he has arrived. And he’s at the front of the queue ready to snap up that new Crème de la Mer moisturiser you waited days to get your hands on.