He Had Me at his Handlebar Mustouche
The other day a diminutive man who placed second in The World Beard & Moustache Championship (in accordance with the official Rules and Regulations of the Association of German Beards Clubs) in the “English Moustache” category, attracted me into his place of employ, The Art of Shaving. (Full disclosure: this is not a sponsored post. Unfortunately.)
This is that man:
For our purposes we will call him, Henriques the Englishman.
I entered the gentleman’s shop because Christmas is coming and I never have any idea what to buy Henry.
He buys what he wants in every day life.
Books, underwear, gadgets, green tea.
The man denies himself nothing. (Yet still manages to underspend me by about 80%.)
But. I’m fairly certain he’d never buy extravagant shaving equipment.
Because he’s a man who still has all of his man parts and occasionally smells rut-y like a boar, so he wouldn’t be into metro-sexual type purchases.
Which means I’m responsible for buying him expensive fripperies that will make him smell like a girl.
(Don’t worry. My chain of thought is confusing even to me. I have no idea what I said in that last paragraph. I’ve been binging on Scandal for three days and even though I’m not a lesbian, I can’t take my eyes off of Kerry Washington’s there-is-no-good-enough-adjective lips).
So. I enter the shop and fall under the spell of Henriques.
He wasn’t wearing the eye patch, fortunately, or I might’ve given him the deed to our home.
(And yes, there will be no consistent past or present verb usage in this post – I LOVE FITZ!).
“Henriques,” I queried in a soft, womanly voice, hoping this might incite his chivalry so he’d have mercy on me,”I was wondering if you might have some kind of shaving Christmas gift set?”
(Like the ones you find at the Estee Lauder counter where, if you spend $30 on a lipstick, you get the kit with the hideous nail polishes and beige concealer for free.)
“Yes, Madame, indeed we do have a most excellent system for shearing your man.”
“Great. I’ll take one.”
“Oh no, Madame, I cannot allow you to just pick one up and walk out the door. First, I must show you all of the components in our most excellent kit and demonstrate how your most cherished partner should execute his ablutions with said kit.”
(He said it just like that. Mostly.)
What luck! There was a working sink right there in the store.
In no short time, Henriques brought forth the Sandalwood Full Size Kit with Black Badger Brush and demonstrated on his admittedly smooth, youthful, moist back-of-his-hand flesh how the pre-shave oil should be distributed in order to prepare the skin for the violent assault soon to be wrought by an infernal blade.
Oh, how the oil coated, soothed and protected against red bumps and — that blaggard — the ingrown hair.
Next, Henriques allowed me to put the delicately infused oil on the back of my own hand.
Years fell away.
My hand very quickly got too big for its britches as, feeling a youthful exuberance, it leapt out to inappropriately twist the ends of Henriques English moustache.
Shortly, Henriques placed an elegant dollop of the shaving cream, gleaned from the ass of a unicorn, on top of the oil and lathered it into a Sandalwood orgy with the “Pure” Black Badger Brush upon his hand.
It wasn’t long before I also grabbed up the more costly “Silvertip” Black Badger brush, followed by the creme de la creme, the “Fine” Black Badger brush, and swept them, a bit sensuously I’m afraid, across my face.
Euphoric from the essential oil fumes and satiny brushes, we moved on the to the razors.
Sweet Mother of God. These were the Bentley of razors, the veritable Rolex to the Timex of watches.
Should I get the Engraved Fushion Razor? Or the Bocote Wood Straight Razor?
How would I measure the love of my husband? I certainly couldn’t settle for the Cross Knurl Safety Razor at a mere $45! What would that say about my marriage?
Now what?! They sold Luxury Barber Stands in which Henry could hang his new razor and badger brush! In Stainless Steel! Which means no stains!
How fabulous those stands would look against the Mexican tile backdrop in Henry’s bathroom. A fusion of old-world rusticity and 21st century modernism!
Yes, I’d probably be out a couple hundred dollars if I got all this stuff, but this was an extravagant Christmas gift.
Something Henry would never dream of spending on himself.
The oil would protect his skin, the brush stimulate pore shrinkage. He’d smell and feel like Matthew McConaughey in, A Time to Kill, not Mud.
As Henriques rang up my order, I felt sanguine about my purchase. And in no small part because Henriques would be gratified his first instincts about me, that I was a noble lady with discerning taste and pedigree, were correct.
He’d feel less lonely in the world knowing he’d found a compatriot that shared his utopian vision a barber-ism.
I’d be the shaving Mozart to his Salieri. He’d be assured his time was meaningfully spent with a …
“That will be $509,” Henrique said.
Henry’s in luck. He will continue to smell like a boar in rutting season well into the New Year. In the meantime, what they hell should I get him for Christmas??