My friend works in the underwear section of a well-known Bristol department store and is always good for an amusing anecdote or five.

But over the past few months, a number of blokes have sidled up to her and asked what many would consider a most unexpected question – "do you sell magic knickers for men?".

"No" is her answer. But I'm not sure what's more surprising – men asking for them or men knowing what they are.

For the uninitiated, magic knickers are slimming pants – tight, stretchy knickers that look like cycling shorts which women can wear under clothes to smooth out any unsightly lumps and bumps on their tum, bum and thighs.

You can't watch a makeover TV show without them being mentioned due to their "magic" (hence the name) ability to instantly transform a bag-of-spanners figure into a sleek silhouette. Millions of women own a pair as they offer body confidence in a matter of seconds.

So why shouldn't men get a piece of this bum-lifting, paunch-flattening action? It's not just women who can feel self-conscious about their wobbly bits.

But it's fascinating that these men had the guts to walk up to a female shop assistant and ask for them – I think it's a huge statement about men in 2008.

The nature of "man" has changed.

Take my beloved dad, for instance. He's never cooked a meal in his life, but he now knows how you get vanilla out of a vanilla pod – and he can mime the knife action with pinky-out precision – since watching cooking programmes became acceptable male viewing thanks to Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsay.

While watching How To Look Good Naked at the Manchester home of my married mate Simon, when he saw a size 20 female in tears at her reflection he said to the screen "all you need are some magic knickers, a wrap-dress and some killer heels, girlfriend".

From the startled look on his face, I could tell that he'd surprised himself with this Gok Wan-style outburst, but it was proof that such girly details have seeped into the male consciousness.

After an ex of mine once spent an unusually long time in my bathroom, I knocked on the door only for him to open it with the words "don't laugh".

This 6ft 4 strapping lad had secretly slathered his face with one of my beauty products but couldn't rinse it off. That's because it was a face mask that sets and you have to peel it off.

(This fact was written in large letters on the tube – but of course, he didn't read it first, he just squeezed the lot into his palm and rubbed it on his face.)

And after my concealer vanished, he admitted he'd swiped it to cover a zit.

My brother, whose job is as manly as you can get (he's a firefighter), not only moisturises twice a day but also owns and uses hair straighteners. He's always impeccably groomed and smells divine.

You only have to look at the array of colours that men's clothing comes in these days to realise that things have changed. So many of my male work colleagues have ditched their traditional blue shirt for a purple one it sometimes feels like I work at PC World.

I'm all for it, men who look, smell, cook and – crucially – feel good.

Just don't take it too far. Give me a Neanderthal ahead of Mr Vain any day.

Another ex would take an hour to "do" his hair before we could leave the house, and when we got home he'd immediately wipe every speck of dirt off his trainers with facial wipes before placing the shoes back in their box.

Then there's the ex I caught admiring himself in the mirror while wearing my skinny jeans. But that's another story...