If you spend more than five minutes on TikTok, YouTube, or certain dark corners of Reddit, you've seen them: teenage boys and twenty-something men with the dead-eyed stare of plastic-surgery addicts, filming themselves in bathroom mirrors while reciting pseudo-scientific jargon about "mewing," "bone-smashing," "hunter eyes," and "canthal tilt." They call it looksmaxing. I call it the most successful mass feminisation campaign since the Ottoman eunuch factories!
Welcome to the Rehab Room generation: a cult where the high priests are 19-year-old pretty boys with skincare fridges bigger than their personalities, preaching that your entire value as a man is measured in millimetres of infraorbital rim projection. Fail the looks threshold? It's over. You're an "incel," a "subhuman," destined for genetic oblivion. The solution? Starve yourself to 8% body fat, get double jaw surgery in Turkey for $12k, implant silicone into your chin, and slather on concealer so you can film a 45-second monologue about why women owe you because your "forward growth" finally hit 9/10.
This isn't self-improvement. This is body dysmorphia marketed as alpha-male enlightenment.
Looks Only Became King in a Society That Neutered Men First
Let's be brutally honest: yes, looks matter. They always have. A tall, symmetrical man with broad shoulders has always had an edge. That's biology.
But never — never — in any serious warrior society was male value so hysterically fixated on facial bone structure that men were willing to let Turkish back-alley surgeons break their jaws with a hammer just to move their mid-face forward two millimetres.
Spartan boys were taken from their mothers at age seven and thrown into the agōgē: starvation rations, ritual beatings, barefoot marches through snow. They emerged with scars, broken noses, and low body fat, not because they were "looksmaxing," but because they were being forged into killing machines. Do you think Spartan King Leonidas gave a single grain of millet about his "canthal tilt" before he told the Persians to come and take it, and died fighting in a last stand? He would have spat on these soft-handed TikTok surgeons and laughed as he crushed their iPhones under his sandal.
Jump forward two millennia. The ANZAC diggers at Gallipoli, sun-burnt, lice-ridden, half-starved, charged Ottoman machine guns with bayonets because someone had to. They weren't contouring their cheekbones with Gucci bronzer. They weren't debating whether filler in the tear troughs would improve their "prey phenotype." They were men doing the hardest thing men have ever been asked to do, and they looked like hell doing it. And they won immortal glory anyway.
The Effeminacy Pipeline is Real
Notice the pattern: the deeper a man falls into looksmaxing, the more feminised his behaviour becomes.
He starts using women's skincare (ten-step Korean routines).
He gets cosmetic procedures that women pioneered (lip filler, brow lifts, BBLs for men are now a thing).
He obsesses over being "pretty" rather than strong, dangerous, or competent.
He spends hours posing for selfies instead of lifting, fighting, building, or leading.
This is not coincidence. Hyper-focus on looking sexually attractive at the expense of everything else is, by definition, feminised behaviour. In nature, males compete through dominance, risk, and provision. Peacocks are pretty. Lions are scarred and terrifying. And both get mates, and the species survives.
When a society no longer lets men compete in the arenas that actually matter, physical danger, economic conquest, tribal warfare, the only arena left is raw sexual marketplace value. And in that arena, the rules are set by women's hypergamous instincts and gay fashion designers. The result? Straight men voluntarily turning themselves into Instagram thots with better bone structure.
When the Lights Go Out, the Pretty Boys Die First
Imagine a real collapse, like nuclear war and/or EMP grid down. Supply chains gone. Roaming gangs. No police, no Amazon Prime delivering your tretinoin. Who survives?
Not the kid who spent $40,000 on jaw angle implants and can't chew steak without pain.
Not the guy whose entire self-worth is tied to his "hunter eyes" and who would rather die than let his skincare routine lapse.
Not the one who spent years starving himself to sub-10% body fat and now has the testosterone of a menopausal hamster.
The men who survive will be the ones who can run ten miles with a pack, build a fire in the rain, and defend their lives and that of their families. They will be scarred, weathered, and probably missing teeth. And women — or what's left of them — will flock to these men like moths to flame, because in that world, protection trumps prettiness every single time.
Final Verdict: Looksmaxing ss Suicide in Slow Motion
If you're a young man reading this and you've fallen into the Rehab Room rabbit hole, hear this old vet. Clearly:
Getting in shape? Good.
Lifting heavy? Excellent.
Dressing sharp? Fine.
Fixing your skin after years of acne? Reasonable.
But the moment you catch yourself researching "bonesmashing tutorials," pricingdevices to lengthen your clavicles, or contemplating suicide because your IPD is 1 mm too wide, close the laptop, go outside, and touch grass. Then go touch iron. Then go touch danger.
Real masculinity was never fragile enough to be shattered by a recessed maxilla. The fact that you think it is proves how far we've fallen.
The ancients are watching. The diggers are watching. And they are not impressed.
Stop trying to become a perfect 10.
Start trying to become a man again!