Closet Creamers

Today I was lamenting my dry hands with the girls at work.

“You’re like my husband,” said one of them. “He refuses to use hand cream – even if his hands are so chafed he’s in pain.”

Some of the other girls, the ones who know me a little better, laughed.

Why? Because I’m as metrosexual as they come concerning my hobbit hands. I’ve barely started one tube of rejuvenating hand formula before I get started on the next. My desk is lined with them. Should I use the lavender and shea butter this morning, or am I more in the mood for avocado oil with added bioflavonoids?

Here’s the problem: for most guys hand cream is a chick thing.

Solution: marketing (isn’t it always).

1. Tubes and tubs – OUT. The applicator must be in the form of a pistol.

2. The title ‘hand cream’ – OUT. ‘Knuckle carbon’ – IN.

3. Flowery and fruity aromas – OUT. The scent of machine oil – IN

4. Creamy pastel colours – OUT. Grey, black or blue – IN

And finally the name. Only something dripping in masculinity will do. Hence …

CRUD: Daily Use Knuckle Carbon. Coz I said so, OK!

Could you forward all calls from the marketing department of Johnson+Johnson to my office please, Jane. Thanks.

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