Now Reading: He’s Just A Man: “Beauty was my contraband”
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He’s Just A Man: “Beauty was my contraband”
I’ve spent a large part of my career asking women why their skin is so good or what beauty products they stock in their top shelves, but I’ve rarely gotten the opportunity to do the same with men. Welcome to He’s Just A Man, where I try to uncover why men are the way they are—at least when it comes to beauty.
If I want Opinions—capital O—I always turn to Kabir Awatramani. He’s a close friend who’s always up on world news and pop culture. He’s also the founder and president of KBB News, the strategy firm behind some of my (and probably your) favorite headlines—so you know he’s on it.
Kabir grew up in Mumbai, India, before moving to the U.S. in 2008. His beauty philosophy was largely shaped by his mom. “My mother insists that vanity is a loathsome trait in men, so growing up, beauty was my contraband,” he says. “The instinct to resist that ideology still shapes my choices today: grooming is about control, defiance, and creating a version of myself that feels closer to the one in my head.”
The irony is that he’s actually very low-maintenance: “I can barely remember to wear sunscreen or take vitamins, let alone complete a 12-step routine. I have had the same bottle of Biologique Recherche’s P50 (the original version with phenol) living in my fridge since at least 2022, and I splash it on with my fingers instead of a cotton pad.”
Still, he’s firm about what he doesn’t like. “I don’t want turmeric, avocados, or yogurt anywhere near my face. I’d take a facelift over a facial any day. I am unapologetic in my support for a 3-in-1,” he told me. “And I have to stop my eyes from rolling out of my skull every time a man refers to his ‘skincare regime.’ Unless you’re the Air Chief Marshal of Cerave, it’s a regimen.”
Keep reading for the hard lesson he learned about sunscreen, the struggle to find a good barber in New York City, and the perfume he douses himself with.
“No one believes me today, but in a former life, I had a ‘pizza face’ and a caterpillar mustache (and braces and specs). I remember one prefect asking how I managed to shave without slicing all my pimples open. These long-gone afflictions remain my North Star.
I’ve tried every magic potion in the aisle—from Clearasil and Clean & Clear to Ayurveda and Proactiv (which you had to order via snail mail back then). And after multiple stints on Accutane (and even Spironolactone), I fully abandoned all skincare to luxuriate in my short-lived, poreless era. That ended abruptly when I burned my face at the ripe age of 31. The photodamage was immediate—and possibly permanent. That’s when I conceded that my mother was right: Sunscreen isn’t a hoax, and no, you should not swim at noon without it. My SPF of choice is Nivea Japan’s UV super water gel. It’s water-based, feels featherlight, and dries fast—and is free of occlusive ingredients that can leave your skin looking greasy. I buy mine from Katagiri Japanese Grocery.
Once my acne cleared, I was too scared to rely on a complicated routine, lest my skin become codependent. After years of naïveté and experimentation with everything from off-label treatments to sugar scrubs and Dr. Sebagh (throwback), I keep it sparse and just use hand-soap from Whole Foods and water to cleanse. Epiduo Forte adapalene and benzoyl peroxide gel is my holy grail—nothing else works as well. It can sting when you first apply it and leave you with reptilian scales, but after you acclimate, everyone will ask if you’re wearing makeup or why you’re glowing despite running on three hours of sleep, too much caffeine, and adrenaline. If I remember, I use A313 (a French over-the-counter retinoid) once a week. And I rotate between La Roche-Posay matte moisturizer, Vichy normaderm phytoaction, Avène cleanance mattifying aqua-gel, or Cerave daily moisturizing lotion. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference between any of them.
As a boy, I was among history’s great hirsutes like Cousin Itt. But my school uniform was regimental, and any drama longer than the ears was forcibly buzzed off in the quad before laughing classmates during recess at the behest of our headmistress. When I finally broke free of that institution, I grew my hair down to my shoulders—thick and wantonly. Then, as I became more follicularly challenged with age, I transitioned to an undercut that, ironically, requires more upkeep than my teenage density—somehow, less hair means more frequent and expensive visits to the salon.
I don’t want to cut my own hair because I believe this is a real talent that I wasn’t born with. Ostensibly, neither was any barber I’ve met in NYC. I think most barbers here are running a racket and charging exorbitant fees for subpar skills because they can. Many men would have hairlines longitudes lower if their barbers understood temple framing—men’s hair is architectural; small changes can have massive impact. (Readers, send me your recs.)
At one point, I began collecting wiglets and toupees for the inevitable. I think they could be so much fun. As Megan Thee Stallion says, ‘Switch my wig, make him feel like he cheating.’
The Milbon volumizing shampoo and wet shine gel cream 5 really do add volume. The shampoo is clear and viscous and really plumps up your hair. The cream is sticky and a bindi-sized dot is sufficient to give your hair form that can withstand a tornado. And Kevin Murphy’s touchable spray wax gives you the flexibility of a hairspray without the dehydration. It’s a genius product, and it’s shocking that they don’t offer a TSA-friendly option.
My JRL forte pro dryer looks like a tiny gun and replaced my Dyson supersonic, which died on day 366. And now that my hair is straight, I use a Shash boar bristle brush to smooth it, along with a Denman brush that my grandmother gifted me.
Indian aunties swear shaving makes your hair grow back thicker, so it was off-limits for anyone seeking depilation—somehow shaving didn’t miraculously regrow their husbands’ hair. For me, this meant stealing my father’s Gillette Mach3 (cutting edge back then) to dodge embarrassment and minus points at assembly (yes, we had Hogwarts-style intra-scholastic houses). My mother finally relented and booked her waxing lady, Maria, to wax my face after months of beginning. That would be the last time Maria offered this service to anyone. For what it’s worth, I still don’t know how to shave properly.
I seldom wear makeup, but one time, I tried the healthy glow bronzing cream at Chanel during an extended lunch break and bought it. When the saleslady applied it on me—I looked like I had just returned from the French Riviera. I haven’t been able to replicate that since, despite summering in Nice. Chanel also has a coco gloss called Excitation that looks great on its own. And I still love Juicy Tubes 20 years later. My favorite shade is Hallucination.
I love to smell good—and I don’t typically divulge how I achieve this, but for Daise, I will. I bought Proraso’s aftershave lotion at Eataly, and it’s gotten me the most compliments. Aesop’s Hwyl smells like a bitter pine forest, and I love it. Acqua di Parma’s Bergamotto di Calabria is a classic, but I find that it faints fast on me. And Matiere Premiere’s Vanilla Powder is my current obsession—I drench myself in it daily. By the way, 82° East’s face, beard, and body cleanser is an oud-scented soap that is the best fragrance I’ve ever used. It’s the only perfumed soap that actually works and leaves you smoky and sexy all day—an unsung gem and a huge hit at my jiu jitsu studio.
One of my biggest culture shocks in America is that nail bars don’t buff your nails. I had to learn to give myself manicures when I moved here. The only salon I found that indulged their customers with a beaming natural shine—charge-free—was a no-frills spot on the edge of Bushwick called Get Nailed. And we did just that—my roommate Astrid, my friend Anne, and I would join the neighborhood abuelitas here every other week. Sadly, we both got priced out of Brooklyn after COVID.”
