Please excuse this musing if it offends your sensibilities; I do not intend to offend, but this might get a little... ridiculous, in terms of hyperbole. I fear temporal distance from the occurrence, as with the proverbial "Big Fish" stories, tends to magnify experiences. Additionally, I'm blowing off a little steam while I wait for my '09 LE to be sorted.
From the moment I beheld that squared bottle, I knew that I was in for something different. What I didn't know was the extent to which this splash would not be fitting the mold. Molds be darned; this liquid does as it pleases, on its own volition. If you don't believe me, you've never used it.
The veg cowers in the corner.
Floid bows, trembling.
Alt Innsbruck takes no prisoners. I hear it's the reason Arnold left Austria, and the reason Chuck Norris stays away. But I'm forgetting to continue my story.
The squared bottle waiting patiently on the shelf, I confidently made my way through a darn fine, three pass shave - knitting a lather from Mitchell's Wool Fat, and gingerly wielding a FatBoy with a fresh Feather, dialed up to three. Checking for strays after the third pass left me confident. The stingless feeling of Alum gliding across my face; emboldened. It was time to try this famed liquid.
My second clue that I was outside of charted waters was in the neck of the bottle. Actually, what was missing from the neck of the bottle, to be precise: a dispenser. And that smell! What is that? It's a summer drive down a rural road somewhere in North Carolina, past a warehouse where that golden leaf is curing, as a cool breeze cuts the heat. I didn't realize it, but it's also a warning shot, fired across the bow.
I carefully poured a seemingly appropriate amount into my palm, and distributed it to the other. I proceeded to pat it about my face, only to experience - quite violently, I would add - the Kevin McCallister reflex. My sleeping wife awakened, rushes to my aid, only to find me standing in front of the mirror, frozen solid.
"What's wrong? Are you OK?"
"Yes... I..."
"What were you yelling about?"
"It burns..."
"What burns?"
"THAT!"
"I'm going back to bed. Please be quiet."
Gathering my wits, I managed to smooth a little more around my beard, my shaven face flinching under my palms. Why, in God's name, would anybody chose to do this to themselves? Repeatedly?!
A few minutes later, I began to understand why. As the topnotes subsided a bit, the wonderful fragrance really blossomed into more of a freshly harvested tobacco. The cool breeze, now a winter wind across my cheeks. Proraso, all of the sudden, seems warm. Amnesia sets in, and once again, I'm confident and ready to face the day.
Please be warned, gentlemen - that wonderful fragrance is the song of a siren. However, once the feeling of salty napalm on an open wound subsides, you'll actually feel quite invigorated, and finally, fresh and cool. And you'll smell darn good.
fin
From the moment I beheld that squared bottle, I knew that I was in for something different. What I didn't know was the extent to which this splash would not be fitting the mold. Molds be darned; this liquid does as it pleases, on its own volition. If you don't believe me, you've never used it.
The veg cowers in the corner.
Floid bows, trembling.
Alt Innsbruck takes no prisoners. I hear it's the reason Arnold left Austria, and the reason Chuck Norris stays away. But I'm forgetting to continue my story.
The squared bottle waiting patiently on the shelf, I confidently made my way through a darn fine, three pass shave - knitting a lather from Mitchell's Wool Fat, and gingerly wielding a FatBoy with a fresh Feather, dialed up to three. Checking for strays after the third pass left me confident. The stingless feeling of Alum gliding across my face; emboldened. It was time to try this famed liquid.
My second clue that I was outside of charted waters was in the neck of the bottle. Actually, what was missing from the neck of the bottle, to be precise: a dispenser. And that smell! What is that? It's a summer drive down a rural road somewhere in North Carolina, past a warehouse where that golden leaf is curing, as a cool breeze cuts the heat. I didn't realize it, but it's also a warning shot, fired across the bow.
I carefully poured a seemingly appropriate amount into my palm, and distributed it to the other. I proceeded to pat it about my face, only to experience - quite violently, I would add - the Kevin McCallister reflex. My sleeping wife awakened, rushes to my aid, only to find me standing in front of the mirror, frozen solid.
"What's wrong? Are you OK?"
"Yes... I..."
"What were you yelling about?"
"It burns..."
"What burns?"
"THAT!"
"I'm going back to bed. Please be quiet."
Gathering my wits, I managed to smooth a little more around my beard, my shaven face flinching under my palms. Why, in God's name, would anybody chose to do this to themselves? Repeatedly?!
A few minutes later, I began to understand why. As the topnotes subsided a bit, the wonderful fragrance really blossomed into more of a freshly harvested tobacco. The cool breeze, now a winter wind across my cheeks. Proraso, all of the sudden, seems warm. Amnesia sets in, and once again, I'm confident and ready to face the day.
Please be warned, gentlemen - that wonderful fragrance is the song of a siren. However, once the feeling of salty napalm on an open wound subsides, you'll actually feel quite invigorated, and finally, fresh and cool. And you'll smell darn good.
fin
