Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
There’s been a miraculous development in the world of smelly man products: Old Spice is groovy again.
Long associated with gray-haired guys who drive Oldsmobiles and spin Frank Sinatra on their turntables, the decaying brand was revived by viral marketing voodoo and a wickedly hot pitchman. Now it’s the leading deodorant and antiperspirant for anybody with a Y chromosome.
My dad was seduced by the manly magic of Old Spice long before Isaiah Mustafa showed up in a bath towel as “The Man Your Man Could Smell Like.” When I was growing up, Old Spice after shave was the signature scent of manhood. That familiar blue sailing ship anchored in our medicine cabinet for at least 30 years. Every morning, Dad would carefully rinse his razor, splash some Old Spice on his freshly grated face and curse like a pirate. Inspired by the ship, no doubt.
Old Spice guys could handle pain. They were wild and fearless. Even the ones leading “Yes, Dear” kinds of lives could pillage and plunder vicariously while taking out the garbage.
Dad never had any real-world boating experience, beyond commanding a vast fleet of Old Spice bottles. He did rent a rowboat once in 1967, but the voyage was cut short by Captain Mom, who had to pee about three seconds after we left the dock. So Dad wasn’t exactly Blackbeard, even with Old Spice’s help. But he smelled nice.
He never hung around water long enough to find out that real seafaring men aren’t especially fragrant. That’s a myth. Whether you launch your man in a three-mast sailing ship or a twin-engine outboard, he won’t come back smelling like a soft ocean breeze. He’ll come back smelling like Charlie the Tuna.
I know this for a fact. My own personal husband once spent weeks chasing Atlantic bluefin—giant tuna that weigh hundreds of pounds, swim like torpedoes and don’t want to become sushi. But they do like to eat. Their idea of a Happy Meal is a bloody bouillabaisse of chopped mackerel, butterfish and squid, served by the five-gallon pail-full. Yum.
After a few weeks of tuna wrestling with the guys, the hubster would return from his floating man cave. You could smell his truck pulling up the driveway. He’d emerge, still picking fish entrails out of his new beard, ready for a hero’s welcome.
Me: “What’s that thing you’re holding?”
Him: “It’s for you. It’s the tail.”
Me: “You brought me the tail of a dead tuna?”
Him: “Yeah. Do I get a hug?”
Me: “Not until we Clorox you.”
When guys are released into the wild wet yonder on their own recognizance—with fishing gear, refreshing beverages and no estrogen-based interference—bathing seems to drop off their daily “To Do” list. There’s not enough Old Spice on the planet to neutralize the manly scent of a husband who’s been marinating in mackerel, no matter how good Mustafa looks holding the product.
Whatever my dad smelled like all those years, it wasn’t wild and seagoing after all. It was something safe and dry, like an accountant.
“Smell like a man,” my tuna tail.
Jan A. Igoe is a humorist and illustrator who lives in Horry County.