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The comedy of pink

It is a basic commandment that proper gentlemen shave with a badger brush and a real razor.

It’s a small moment of unbroken peace at the start of a busy day, and I love the fact it can’t be rushed.

Unfortunately, my trusty shaving brush is no more. I’ve finally admitted the fact, and this week set about finding its heir on the superhighway of internet commerce rather than the elegant pavements of Jermyn Street. The pain at its loss is more than salved by the pleasure of its replacement.

My small indulgence has now arrived: a new razor and brush set with my favourite shaving cream.

The Boy is deeply impressed at the man-kit and helped me open the box,  holding up the treasured contents with the reverence of an pint-sized Indiana Jones uncovering an ancient artifact.

Such fascination is now, however, overtaken.

It turns out that The Man Who Makes Daddy’s Shaving Cream not only uses pink boxes: he’s called Mr Trumper. The uncontrollable mirth is lovely.

After all, what in the world could possibly be funnier?

Personal views of a wordsmithing, sartorialist, horn-playing, state school Oxonian dad, rugby ref, recovering politico, and fan of vintage tailoring, Ralph Lauren style, and sharp writing.

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