Skin Guard Technology
My pores need to be so damn exfoliated that they’re in danger of being cordoned off the Department of Fish and Wildlife for being pristine wilderness. Congress has to be about to use tax dollars to start assigning officers to my face, for protection. Vitamins? I need Pro-Vitamins. That’s should go without saying. Itch defense? Status quo. My face had better glow, like Moses’ bearded wonder when he strutted down from Mount Sinai. Post-application, my pores had better be so wide, so clean, so full of my natural face oils that bacteria fear to tread anywhere but along their shores.
I’m getting ahead of myself. Facial creams are further along in the process. We’re talking aisle 6B later. Before any exfoliation, there’s the not-so-simple matter of shaving cream choice.
Most days the only part of my skin people ever see is my face, which is why if my shaving cream doesn’t have that Skin Guard Technology, I won’t even pick it up off the shelf. I’m always checking for that Skin Guard Technology. None of this Redefinition crap. My skin already has an identity: El Jefe.
Sure, I want El Jefe to be firm and smooth, but that’s like saying I want my food to taste decent. Understatement of the year. After shaving, my skin should be smoother than the buns of baby Jesus, fresh from Mary via the loins of the Holy Ghost. My shaving cream needs to be guarding El Jefe’s pores with a vigor akin to the Priory of Sion’s protection of the Holy Grail. Willing to die for it.
Understand, I don’t want any of this jack-of-all-trades, king-of-none nonsense that some of those companies put out. Would you hire Yngwie Malmsteen to do your taxes? No! You’d hire him to play at you backyard barbeque so that no one would ever mess with you again, because their faces would become permanently melted, leaving them ashamed, while El Jefe would obviously persevere through the massive shredding without needing to pop out a bead of sweat. I want each cream — whether shaving, facial, hand, foot or otherwise — to triumph in doing what it was made to do, and nothing else. And for a shaving cream, the job is simple. They need to guard El Jefe from the fury of the Quattro razor, letting said razor get only close enough to El Jefe so as to properly lift and cut the follicles. I’m not looking for any Aloe in my foamy goodness. I don’t need anything quenched. If I wanted something to therapeutic, I’d sit down with a stout bowl of Creamy Mac in one palm and a Corona in the other for back-to-back episodes of Dr. Phil. No. None of this Renaissance Shaving Cream bullshit, trying to be all things to all people. That’s a recipe for disaster, in the form of little pieces of tissue paper trying to soak up blood from the wounds that Quattro made on El Jefe.
In short, a shaving cream’s role is this, and only this: Guard. If it can’t handle that simple task, I’m gone. On to the next shelf.
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