The man bun.
A seemingly simple thing. A sweep of hair, a grasp of hands, a twist of the wrist: done.
The archetypal feminine re-purposed to serve the strongest of jawlines, cheekbones and shoulders.
There's just something about them.
I would love to espouse upon their particular beauty, straddling that ever-decreasing rigid distinction between masculine and feminine: an effortlessly suave and glorious beacon of the ideologically-advanced.
Well, in theory at least.
I would love to espouse, really I would, but I feel that in many respects the man bun speaks for itself, and when it does such a good job it seems only fair to just, well, let it.