If you frequent watch news sites you will have noticed a new member of the watch fraternity. Wrist hairs have become an essential accessory for watches, as vital as a crown or a strap. The wristshot, a popular variant of a selfie, has invaded blogs, Instagram feeds and even official watch adverts looking for some casual lifestyle branding. And with it come all those ugly little keratin stowaways.
Unlike the aptly named still life, a watch on the wrist is a dynamic object. It proves its relevance in its natural milieu – on the wrist – not in the sterile environs of shops and on magazine pages. But all too often, watch photography becomes more follicle fest than window on the world. Close-ups, clichéd poses and… all those hairs – have become so universal, and so universally repulsive, that they have lost all meaning and dignity. I include myself in this critique, because I too have succumbed to the temptation to exhibit my cubitus and radius, and all their straggly Neanderthal hairs.
But I’m ready to quit. I’m seriously looking for ways to spare you this unwanted intimacy. And it’s not like my wrist is even particularly hirsute. Some people have wrist hair that is so dense that it’s a challenge to see the watch through the luxuriant tropical foliage. I have a colleague who’s so hairy that he shaves his wrist. Don’t judge. Like me, he tries on hundreds of watches every year, so it’s perfectly justified. If you could see how long those arm hairs are, you’d hand him a razor immediately. But the rest of the time, to hide the conspicuous bare patch on his otherwise densely forested arm, he has to wear a big leather cuff bracelet, which he only takes off for work. The sacrifices we make...
But you must admit, it’s difficult to keep wrist hairs sufficiently well groomed for the camera. The shirt cuff, static electricity, and the deplorable dearth of wrist-wranglers to make them look presentable, all conspire to ensure that there will always be one or two recalcitrant hairs that curl up over the top of the case and insinuate themselves onto the dial. Thick, black and twice as ugly. The impossibility of imposing discipline on arm hairs is so exasperating that the Moroccan comedian Gad Elmaleh makes it a defining feature of the “Blond” – that unbearably perfect guy who, when he eats a sandwich, never spills mayonnaise down his front, and whose arm hairs are perfectly coiffed.
So what can be done? Shave them, lose all self-respect and suffer constant daily ridicule? Apply a blob of gel or a spritz of hairspray every 15 minutes during Baselworld? Never take another “live” photo, the kind that proves that you’ve touched, tried on and appreciated the watch you’re writing about? It’s a cruel dilemma. Honestly, who would be a watch journalist?
