I seem to recall, during the British Invasion, the gritty long-haired band the Pretty Things posing under hair dryers in a beauty salon. That scared the suits of America. Suddenly, young guys refused to be defined by clichéd masculinity and chicks were screaming at louche cats like Mick Jagger and Brian Jones. Gender was bent for good. Now, I’ll grant you that if you have a crew cut, or a Caesar coif like mine, you don’t need a hair dryer. But if you’re going for a luxuriant length, a blow-dryer is indispensable. I recently saw a vintage blow-dryer modeled on the pistol that Dirty Harry made famous. Maybe you could find one to wave at your insecure friends. They probably use “men’s hair dye” and “men’s deodorant,” needing constant reassurance that they are in fact male. Some of us just know that. Real men get blown.

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