Wrestling isn't perceived as a cool pursuit by the wider world.
Those who enjoy it do so apparently trapped in their mother's basement, with curly hairs sprouting from their necks and acne marking their pitiful, lonely faces. That's the perception, anyway - and because we are treated as such, our heroes therefore must be camp neanderthals sporting DayGlo spandex gurning and grunting for our pathetic brand of entertainment. In reality, those who perform it are - or were - purveyors of wild excess, dabbling in the sort of alcohol and drug abuse that would poison even the most extravagant equivalents in the Rock N' Roll arena. These men also possessed the charisma, sex appeal, showmanship and sheer cool factor of a Steven Tyler or a James Brown.
The essence of cool is difficult to define; the very process of defining it repels you from it because it is something inherently seductive, indefinably magnetic. Some simply have it, and by its only definition, the vast majority do not.
Coolness in wrestling is rare, and harder to attain than cosplaying as somebody cool, ruling out the Ascension, and Triple H circa 2003...