Rather than trivialising these shifts in expression, we should recognise them as part of the ongoing evolution of male identity and embrace the possibility that masculinity, like femininity, can exist in multiple, fluid forms.
In Ancient Greece, the act of living was theatre. Masculinity had to be staged and seen: in the gymnasium where oiled bodies were sculpted and displayed; in the agora, where rhetoric became a blood sport; or on the battlefield where courage was currency. Aristotle, in Politics, tied manhood to reason and authority — qualities defined by public recognition rather than private essence. Even philosophy, supposedly the pursuit of truth, doubled as performance: wisdom only mattered once it was spoken, debated, and applauded.
Masculinity has never been private. It has always had props, costumes, and an audience. Ancient Greece had its triumphs, knights had their jousts, and the 2010s had their “self-loathing poets.”
Susan Bordo reminds us that this theatre of masculinity never disappeared; it simply changed venues. In The Male Body, she explores late-capitalist culture and how it turned men into spectacles, their physiques disciplined for the billboard. But visibility does not equal acceptance. Just as society once praised the warrior’s armour while scorning effeminacy, today it praises the sculpted abs of the gym bro while mocking the man who posts his iced matcha latte to Clairo. Bordo’s point exposes the double bind: men are expected to perform, but only in ways that reinforce the “approved” script of masculinity.
Critics often sneer that the matcha-sipping, LaBubu-dangling man is just putting on an act to impress women. But the same logic underpins the gym bro sculpting his biceps, the finance guy flashing his Rolex, or the weekend warrior downing steaks and beers. All are performances staged with an imagined audience in mind. To single out the soft or “feminised” performance as inauthentic while naturalising the hard one only exposes the bias.
Perhaps the mistake has always been to treat performance as the opposite of authenticity. What if performance is not the mask of identity but its very substance? To call the matcha man “fake” is to cling to the illusion that there was ever a “real” self beneath the act, untouched by audience or expectation. But there never was. And there never will be. There are only roles, rehearsed and revised, shifting with culture and circumstance. This is not just the story of masculinity but of humanity itself. We are all performers, staging fragments of self for the gaze of others. To live is not to peel back performance, but to stand on it
