Man buns. Let’s cut straight to the chase because there really is no sitting on the fence with this one. They’re like spreading Marmite on a muffin. You either love, loathe, or cannot even begin to contemplate the thought of it.
“I don’t care what you say – I am not cutting it off,” said Guido. He pointed his beer bottle at me, “I yank it, twiddle it and twist it at least twenty times a day. Get over it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said. I stared at the top of his head. Stay calm, I thought, I’ve got a thick toothed brush on my side. “Well you’ll have to shape up if you are going to keep it for our wedding because I’ve discovered a website devoted to this phenomenon.” Readers please browse manbunstyle.net for more information.
I should warn you the site has graphic pictures. Some men have very small ones and other men have very large ones. Guido’s is strangely shaped in my humble opinion. It’s prone to sticking out in public, but who am I to judge? I guess you’ve just got to deal with the dice life throws you at the time. Never before had I realised just how seriously people took their buns. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Ban Ki Moon suddenly called an emergency meeting of the security council at the United Nations to discuss this international hot topic. Book me a seat.
To the uninitiated, tying long hair into a top knot isn’t as easy as what you’d think. I’m making Vidal Sassoon sound like Stephen Hawking. So last night I took matters into my own hands. I told Guido to sit completely still on the sofa whilst I experimented. If I’m going to marry a man with a bun, I had to consider all options. The alternatives were challenging.
1. Bunches. I combed him thoroughly, parted, threaded and tied. I sat back. It was like staring Marcia from The Brady Bunch in the face. I obviously shook it loose. Guido took a swig of beer.
2. Plaits. I’ll admit these were fiddly. It took a couple attempts to get knotted. I laid them over the top of his head and kept them in place with my index finger. I squinted with one eye. “You look like somebody who could possibly be named Heidi,” I said. “Do you have any previous experience of milking a cow in Switzerland?” I asked. He didn’t answer me. I let the plaits dangle like a couple of coiled springs. We couldn’t possibly get married with his hair looking like that. There would be pictures. Memories fade but photographs last forever. I shook it loose again. Guido took a swig of beer.
3. Au Naturale. This time I let the whole lot hang free. I had high hopes for this one folks, although Guido has no fringe or bangs to speak of. I looked closer and, frankly, it got suddenly worse. In the blink of an eye he’d gone straight from Anne of Green Gables to Hulk Hogan. Good grief. This was going to be more traumatic than I had originally thought. Get me Ban Ki on the line immediately.
In the end I pretended to tell Guido I’d sleep on it. I pick my battles wisely. I’ll always be magnanimous in defeat. Let’s just say if it’s a toss up between letting him keep a man bun so I get a pink tuxedo, I’m happy. Guido doesn’t call me bitter and twisted and coniving for nothing you know.