3hree Things: A Trifecta Of Male Hygiene Trends That Need To End

Watch out for 3hree Things every Tuesday, where Riley Breckenridge, drummer of Orange County's favorite local alt-rock band Thrice, gives his take on life in Southern California as an OC native.

​When I write these 3hree Things pieces, I usually have a pretty solid idea of what I'll write about by Thursday of the preceding week. Then, I'll spend bits and pieces of the weekend making a mental notes about the topic before I hunker down in front of the computer with a pot of coffee on Monday morning and unleash whatever form of subtext-cluttered yammering my caffeine-addled brain decides to splatter onto the screen.

This week was different. Thursday came and went with nary an idea. Friday flew by. Nothing. On Saturday morning, fueled by a Friday night trip to the Big A, and a weekend slate of football games on the tube, a few sports-centric column ideas popped up: Football in 2010 (boring, overdone), Fantasy Football and why I can't stop playing it even though my success rate would suggest I should have quit a long time ago (even more boring and overdone, and nobody wants to read about someone else's fantasy team, they want to talk about their fantasy team), the disappointment of this year's Los Angeles Angels team (so disappointing that they're not worth 2000+ words I'd need write to adequately describe the depth of their suckage , nor the 15 minutes it would take you to read those words. Also: really boring.)

Then, on a routine Saturday trip to the car wash, a gentleman sat down next to me in the waiting area that was a living trifecta of current male hygiene trends that baffle me, and as a result, singlehandedly became the impetus for this week's 3hree Things. So, thank you, oh gentleman who will remain nameless (because I don't know his name.)
1) The aggressive slathering of one's body with one of the many available flavors of douchesauce

I fully understand the desire to prevent oneself from smelling like a dead hobo with pockets full of chili in a dumpster behind a pet store, but the length that some men are willing to go to avoid this has swung so far in the other direction, I often find myself pining for some good old-fashioned B.O. The unnamed gentleman was so juiced up with eye-watering and cilia-burning levels of whatever flavor of AXE body spray he'd coated himself in that morning that I could taste it. I'm not sure what strain of douchesauce he'd chosen, but if I had to guess based on the sensory assault he was laying on everyone within a 50-yard radius of him, I'd say he had used no less than half a bottle of Dance Floor Rapist, Arctic Musk Chowder, or Uptown Spice Beast. Whatever it was, I think it gave me pink eye. Let's ease up on the bro-logne, gentlemen. Nobody likes a man that smells like someone dumped the contents of a spice rack into a bucket of Pine-Sol.

2) Waxing/plucking/trimming one's eyebrows into pencil-thin wisps of permanent surprise
Although my eyes were burning like I'd been staring into a bucket of bleach for an hour, I managed to catch a glimpse of the unnamed gentleman's face, and what I saw was troubling. He (or perhaps someone that hated him) had reduced his eyebrows to 2mm thin arches of wrongness. They were so misshapen that he had essentially reduced his face to conveying one emotion: surprise. I'm not opposed to a little brow maintenance here and there (because, unfortunately, as you age, your eyebrows join forces with your nose and ear hair and decide that they need to flourish and sprout sporadically), especially if you have an aggressive unibrow or your brows look like someone stapled a couple of toupees to your forehead, but when you start looking like Pennywise the Clown you've gone too far. Can we leave the waxing to our girlfriends or wives and practice a little moderation here?

4_ICE ICE.jpg
3) Turning a perfectly manageable head of hair into a weapon and/or impenetrable hair helmet
When I was in junior high, I used to gloop, glop, and spray my hair into a impervious (and ridiculous) Vanilla Ice-esque wave. You could have stuck me behind an engine of a 747 at full throttle and that thing wouldn't have budged. My excuse? I was 12, and an idiot. Thankfully, I realized the err of my ways (after a few years), gave up on the arsenal of styling products I'd become reliant on, and haven't looked back since. (I've been shaving my head for the better part of the last 15 years, and when I do actually have enough hair to require taming, I opt for something that allows my hair to be less like the the consistency of concrete and more like the consistency of, well...hair.) We all have phases. We grow out of them. We learn as we go. Most of us.

I suppose it's no surprise, based on the prior two hygiene-related muffs by the unnamed gentleman, that his hair was a train wreck as well. It was equal parts Jersey blowout, and nu-metal goon-crown. As if the stylistic catastrophe of his coif wasn't enough condemnation, the amount of gudge he had keeping his 'do in check was worse. It blew even the gunkiest of my teenage years out of the water. His spikes shone bright in the summer sun, like beacons of douchery, defying the elements. You could have skewered kabob on those things. 

I'm gonna hazard a guess here, and say that women (and men, depending on your personal preference) probably prefer hair that they can run their fingers through, not hair that can make them lose an eye. And since all of this primping and preening is most likely done with the hopes of impressing a potential mate, it seems like turning your hair into a deadly weapon might be a bit counterproductive. Plus, when you're in the heat of passion, you're probably going to sweat that crap out and end up encrusting yourself and your significant other in a layer of Dep Extra Hold and Aqua Net. And we wouldn't want that to happen now, would we?

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