In his “Cooped Up” newsletter last week, my publisher wrote about his being a prissy boy. By his own words, this is hardly a news flash for those of us who know him. Liking pretty things such as painted nails, silk scarves, and beautiful handbags is part of that, not to mention that a touch of concealer helps. I couldn’t agree more, although at my stage in the game, more than a touch of concealer is in order.
As Cooper said, gender norms are “one of the most destructive artificial constructs in our society.” Now that’s a deep statement, and one with which I totally agree. That, too, is hardly a news flash.
For as long as I can remember, gender norms and the resulting expectations of what boys and girls could and couldn’t do were stifling for a lot of kids, who grew up into men and women still stifled by the adult versions of those norms. To be clear, this is not about sexual orientation, although there is some overlap.
From the get-go, almost everything was assigned gender. Toy stores had separate aisles for boys and girls, and libraries had sections for boys’ books and girls’ books. Of course, clothes were gendered, but so were the expected attitudes about them. Boys weren’t supposed to care too much about them, and girls were supposed to be borderline obsessed with them. Any boy who cared too much about what he put on his back might be labelled prissy. I know I was.
In the days before student loans were readily available, those fortunate enough to go to college often had different expectations placed on them. If the family’s resources were insufficient to send all its children to higher education, it would almost certainly be the boy in whom the investment would be made.
A college degree for a boy meant a higher probability of making more money with which to support the family he was supposed to have. For girls, it frequently meant finding one of those up-and-coming boys to marry. By the time I got to college, some of those girls were more interested in taking care of themselves than finding someone who would take care of them, which was never a certainty in the first place.
As unfair as all of that was, there were all those other unnecessary separations by gender. Even deodorants were divided into those for men and those that were “strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.” When more greasy hair products for men went out of favor, hair spray marketed “for men” became a thing. In a rather bizarre move, such brands were generally more expensive than Aqua Net, so you can deduce which one I was using. Even cigarettes were marketed specifically to women, proving that we had not really come a long way, baby.
But that was all years ago, and we have come a long way now. Still, not everyone is comfortable with the changes. For the most part, that’s on them. If a boy of any age wants to paint his nails Jungle Red, whose business is it? Girls of any maturity who don’t want to wear a skirt, high heels, or a full face of makeup should do and wear what they want. How each of us presents ourselves to the world is and should be our choice. What gives us confidence and makes us comfortable is exactly what we should do.
There is a catch in this, however. Prissy sometimes can be a bit finicky, and who among us has not cast an eye and wondered, “What were they thinking?” It may be about anything, from what folks wear at the airport to tattoos or white shoes after Labor Day. I confess that, as a card-carrying prissy boy, I struggle with this.
These days, with all that there is to be concerned about, I’m trying to prioritize those concerns. Question 1: How will it affect me? Question 2: How will this affect my family and friends? Question 3: How will this affect people I don’t even know? If the answer to those questions is not at all, then it’s not a concern at all.
Apply for your prissy card. If there’s something you want to try, try it. Paint those nails, wrap that scarf around your neck, or the handle of that handbag for a Babe Paley kind of look. Throw on the concealer and whatever else you want.
But take this warning from someone who knows. Once you try black eyeliner, you might never go back.
