THE MENNEN'S
“A couple of times a year I unscrew the tiny black cap and breathe in the emerald-green aromatic magic.”
A career Marine, my dad shaved twice a day: once in the morning for the Corps and the world, and once at night to keep Mama happy. His razor was a Gillette Fatboy that twisted open to receive new blades from a small blue dispenser. He stored it in a brown leather Dopp kit that also housed two golf tees, nail clippers and a small bottle of Mennen’s Skin Bracer.
He was a beautiful man with a rather rectangular head. My mother said this was the case with all very handsome men. Shaving was easy for him because his beard was light and the planes of his face welcomed the razor he so deftly used to make his skin velvety smooth. To finish, using both hands, he slapped on some Mennen’s—his signature scent. If you caught a hug just afterwards, it smelled like heaven. An hour or so later, the tang had faded and you had to be very close to detect it. Like the moon, his scent waxed and waned.
Some childhoods have soundtracks. Mine had the smell of Mennen’s. It was there when Dad drove me to my first day of kindergarten, when he planted rhubarb and asparagus in our backyard garden, when he touched my mother’s arm or cheek every time he passed her, when I got my first after-school job and he explained that a good worker always stands tall and never puts their hands in their pockets, when he complimented an apple pie I made.
When he was 84, Dad was diagnosed with cancer. We thought it was swift-moving, but it turned out he’d had it for years. His doctor told him he must have been too busy being a good man to notice any illness.
Very soon after the diagnosis, Dad could no longer shave himself. He looked at me, the youngest of his six children, and said, “You can do this, right, kid?” I was a 45-year-old woman who felt I could not only shave him, but make him well, conquer an army and then institute world peace, such was the depth of my love for him. So I got to work. When I was done, I asked if he wanted Mennen’s, thinking that in his weakened state, the scent might be too strong. He laughed at me for that. “Mennen’s is part of shaving, sweetie.”
Only 21 days from diagnosis to death for our strong, kind and faithful Marine. After he passed, the hospice nurse saw me reach for the Fatboy and asked if I wanted help. Nope, I said, I got this. When it was time for the Mennen's, I didn’t slap but softly patted.
This 69-cent, half-ounce glass bottle of Skin Bracer resides in my bathroom drawer, way in the back. A couple of times a year I unscrew the tiny black cap (a Dad lesson: lefty loosey, righty tighty) and breathe in the emerald-green aromatic magic that so defined my father. And I think how fortunate I was to be able to help him report to his final starry post not just wearing his dress blues, but with his beautiful face looking just as it should.
—Ginevra Blake
Ginevra Blake lives in the Central Oregon High Desert, where her father’s ancestors settled in the 1800s.
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Thank you for sharing this beautiful tribute to your Dad. It brought back memories of my father and his favourite aftershave: Old Spice.
I had to stop in the middle of reading this to see who wrote it--because it was gorgeous. Well done, Ginevra. My dad used Mennen Skin Bracer, too, and shaving was one of the things he liked to do to feel like he could still take care of himself. What a lovely reminder for me and a truly lovely memory of yours.