Ah, the folly of youth. Or rather, the folly of middle age, when one suddenly awakens to the quagmire of vanity and seeks—nay, demands—a resurgence, an odyssey back to one’s former splendor. And so, there I was, three days post-divorce, standing before the mirror, staring at the vestige of a man who once gallivanted through life with the audacity of a raconteur unburdened by the indignities of time.
Indubitably, something had to be done.
Thus began my clandestine foray into the world of men’s cosmetics—not merely a dabble, but a full-fledged adventure, a spectacle of transformation worthy of legend. My first acquisition was the renowned Botinal Line Defense Facial Masque, a rejuvenating marvel available in three distinct sizes: the classic 4-ounce glass jar for $78, a 2-ounce travel-size aluminum tin for $48, and for those who refuse to compromise on luxury, the 8-ounce apothecary jar for $140.
Each vessel, crafted in matte black with gold-embossed lettering, exudes a sophistication reminiscent of the clandestine barbershops of Istanbul, where a shave is not merely a shave, but a rite of passage.
Infused with retinol, rare Edelweiss from the Swiss Alps, and green tea extract cultivated in a hidden valley in Bhutan, its formula is nothing short of alchemy. The scent—oh, the scent!—a rhapsody of bergamot, sandalwood, and the ineffable whisper of rare oud, as if a Himalayan monk had distilled the very essence of enlightenment itself.
I applied it in the dim glow of a single candle, the air thick with the mystique of a Moroccan bazaar at dusk. The results? An unparalleled revival. The tapestry of my face, once weathered like the stones of a lost jungle temple in the Yucatán, now bore the luminous grandeur of a man who had conquered both destiny and time itself.
But this was merely the beginning.
A wise man—or perhaps it was merely the whispered reverie of a shadowy figure in a hidden speakeasy in Buenos Aires—once told me, “A man’s face is his first introduction, his calling card to destiny.” And so, with the audacity of an explorer gallivanting across the Gobi Desert on the trail of a Mongolian horse thief, I ventured further into the artistry of refinement.
Manscara, a marvel of modern engineering, is offered in three impeccable formulations: the Classic Definition for $24 for a 0.3-ounce tube for the man who seeks only a whisper of enhancement, the Voluminous Express for $28 for a 0.4-ounce tube for eyes that demand attention, available in Midnight Onyx, Charcoal Smoke, Espresso Noir, and Waterproof Tenacity for $30 for a 0.3-ounce tube, designed for those who might find themselves engaged in an impromptu waltz beneath the moonlight of the French Riviera or locked in a battle of wits aboard a Soviet-era freighter.
Then came The Urban Camouflage Concealer, a serendipitous revelation in subtle correction, available in two formats. The Precision Applicator Tube for $32 for 0.5 ounces, sleek and practical, is engineered for those who live life on the move, effortlessly erasing the fatigue of all-night poker games and moonlit escapades.
For the distinguished traveler, however, there is the Luxe Compact for $48 for 0.6 ounces, housed in an artisan-crafted lacquered case with an interior mirror, an essential companion for those who find themselves whispering secrets in the back room of a Parisian café.
With a flourish that could only be matched by reciting Yeats to the Atlantic winds atop the Cliffs of Moher, I sealed my transformation using Resounding Confidence Setting Spray, a finishing touch designed for the man who knows his place in the world. The Light Hold for $36 for 3.4 ounces offers a barely perceptible whisper of security, perfect for those who seek an effortless, natural air.
The Medium Control for $38 for 4 ounces is designed for the man whose engagements spanned from midday business dealings to a moonlit tango rendezvous. And for those who require nothing short of perfection—whether battling the sweltering heat of a floating market in Bangkok or engaging in a high-stakes game of deception within a hidden speakeasy—there is Unyielding Defense for $42 for 5 ounces, a formula impervious to sweat, scrutiny, and regret.
Ah, then the date.
Mal di Stomaco, a restaurant so dimly lit it might have served as the clandestine rendezvous for spies exchanging whispered secrets in the back room of an Afghan café. I entered, resplendent, indomitable, unaware of the imminent quagmire that lay ahead. Then, the moment arrived. My date, Natalie, an exquisite vision of effortless beauty, regarded me with a raised brow before delivering the fatal blow:
“Ewwww. Are you wearing make-up?”
A death knell. A lamentation. A miscalculation of Shakespearean proportions.
Mortified, I fled to the men’s room, where the mirror offered me no solace. By the time I returned, she had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a note, a cruel vestige marking the demise of my short-lived grandeur.
And so, my odyssey ended precisely where it had begun. With humility, I returned to my former love, who, with wisdom borne from witnessing every one of my eccentricities, whispered, “I like you just the way you are.”
Yet occasionally, late at night, when the air is thick with nostalgia and the world feels momentarily weightless, I catch my own reflection and remember. And sometimes—just sometimes—I still indulge in a quiet act of rebellion, dabbing the faintest trace of Botinal Line Defense beneath my eyes. A silent homage to the man I briefly became.
After all, every great adventure deserves a fitting epilogue, doesn’t it?
