I have to admit, I'm not walking around smelling like the man your man could smell like. Aside from Herrera for Men, whatever is underlying my cleanliness is usually compliments of what my wife puts in the shower. And most of the time, I don't mind it except for one very time consuming borderline-OCD-inducing aspect that seems to be a part of every cleansing product - little tiny pearls. They're like little ball-bearings that help my hands glide smoothly over my body. Sorry for the image. Back to the pearls.
According to the bottle, they're "softening serum pearls for soft, healthy looking skin." I know they're supposed to burst open or dissolve and unleash some oil or chemical that will make my skin as soft and smooth as a baby's bottom. However, I'm not quite sure that's what I need; Softening of my skin? Hell, I've avoided most labor-intensive work all of my life so my skin is plenty soft already, thank you very much. Put sand in that puppy and I'll buy it; something akin to
Goop. If a grease monkey uses it to remove burnt automotive oil from his hands, then it's good enough for me. Don't get it twisted though, this is not a macho rant. I love pearls just as much as the next guy... just not in my soap.
The problem I have with these so-called "pearls" is not what they do (or are supposed to do,) but what they make me do. I don't have time to wait till they burst open and bless me with their miracle moisture, so I spend half of my shower time chasing them on my palm, with my index finger, trying to pop them. Almost as if I want to get our household budget's worth. Not a pearl unturned! But they're some slippery suckers and when they do indeed burst, I'm not sure my fingertip feels "softened." That's a problem. The benefits/time ratio is low. Not so with a bar of soap.
A bar of soap was efficient. It did what it was supposed to do - clean your ass and your body in one smooth motion (spare me - you know you've done it.) It even developed finger strength as you had to grip it for dear life otherwise risk getting slapped from behind by a wet wall or plastic curtain. A bar of soap let you know that it was time for a new one when it became so soft that you can hardly rub your chest without losing all of it in your chest hair only to pick it apart in pieces. Sorry about that image again.
Have we fallen prey to marketing? Sure I can
man-up my bodywash, but that still leaves me with the emasculating task of having to dab a little on a vinyl luffa made in China that knows everyone in my family better than I do. I want my bar of soap. My own bar of soap. I think I'll buy one. I think I'll buy the cheapest bar of soap I can find. One that doesn't promise "soft, healthy looking skin." Then I'll carve my name into it with my teeth (the soap not my skin - I'm not crazy) and smile at everyone I meet that day. So that when they say, "Anthony, you have something in your teeth." I will proudly reply, "Hell yes I do! It's soap!"
Do what you do and don't try to entice me with your pretty little pearls.
Swan dive into that!
Are you with me?
-Anthony
P.S. I broke a nail typing this, so if you catch me at the nail salon around my way, that's why.
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