I admit to a liking for aftershave, the cheaper the better. I like the sting and the astringent smell although it seems to disappear before I have even left the bathroom. My wife hates my cheapo brands so when she goes off to places like Paris and Rome, generally without me but don´t ask me what she´s up to, she always comes back with some shaving stuff for me. She has obviously paid a fortune for it (or should I say I have paid via our “joint” credit card) and it has always been a waste of money. She never buys me what I want but comes back with after and pre-shave balms, unguents and creams, none of which I like. She then interrogates me every time I shave.
Remember the Sam Goldwyn quote “How much did you love the movie?”. Well that´s how it is. “Did you like the after shave? Was it good? Was it great?” I have to coo with delight as if she had made it with her own fair hands instead of picking it up in the duty free before walking past the Armagnac (which I would much prefer).
Loving it means loving her. Well that´s how she sees it. When I approach her afterwards, swathed in whatever it is, instead of dragging me off to the bedroom, she says something like, “Mother´s just invited us to round on Sunday, won´t that be lovely? Could you give me my phone. I want to see some pictures of cousin Maisie on Facebook. She´s in Disneyland and has posted some pictures of her and Donald Duck.”
Oh for the days of my pre-bumfluff youth and aftershave never existed.
Nominated by Mr Polly



