The menace of the male-over
As one Hollywood source put it, ‘He just wants to look his best standing next to her.’ Hmm. Not convinced. There’s something emasculating about it all. There’s a feminine fingerprint, a sense of ‘you’re mine, and, honey, I don’t want you to clash with my shoes’. Their men, like their manicures and their handbags, are all part of the promo package.
Which brings us, inevitably, to Victoria Beckham. Who can forget David’s makeover, back in the mists of time when he was still best known for his corner kicks? You’ll recall the sarong episode, the catalogue of beanie hats, the gallery of haircuts, the cropped pants, the creative facial hair. Vain he may be, but these gestures surely had Victoria written all over them. You could imagine the pair of them in one of their vast dressing rooms on some continent or other discussing moisturiser and split ends and whether he could work the taupe cargo pants with the putty-coloured tee. Now, even Wayne Rooney has had a hair transplant.
The majority of my male followers got their 
Grooming: Male pampering, Pankhurst at Nick Tentis, London. Understated menswear firm, friction scalp massages, hot towel shaves. 
