I Need You To Be Honest With Me Now: Do I Smell?
If I really need deodorant, the budget stuff is fine, right..?
CAN I let you into a little secret? Some days I don’t wear deodorant. In fact, I’ve been known not to wear it for several days in a row.
Be honest, are you faintly appalled? I’m not sure I’d blame you if you were.
Indeed, if you’re a member of my family or one of my close friends, it’s possible that my “secret” isn’t as secret, or as little, as I’m assuming it to be. I may in fact pong to high heaven. I may stink like a skunk. If that’s the case, please accept my sincere apologies; it really wasn’t my intention.
Not wearing deodorant isn’t some kind of statement on my part. And it certainly isn’t a lifestyle choice. Believe me, I’m not the sort of person who makes “lifestyle choices”, other than the one where I choose for my life not to have a “style”.
No, the reason I can go several days without wearing deodorant is a lot more straightforward than that.
It’s because I keep forgetting to buy it.
Before I dress, I’ll reach for the existing can on my mantelpiece, give it a quick blast on the top bit (please excuse the technical terminology) and immediately discover that it’s empty. Well, I say “discover”. That would suggest that I didn’t already know it had
“On some level I’m telling myself that deodorant is not an essential purchase. Not for me at least. I really don’t do a lot of sweating…”
run out, whereas actually I’ve known for days. So why have I left that empty can sitting there, promising so much but delivering nothing, squirt-wise. Why haven’t I just thrown it away? Heaven only knows. Maybe I’m a moron.
That, and a bit of a cheapskate. To be honest, I think that’s the real issue here. Deep down, I think I resent having to spend money on this stuff. This would explain why, whenever I make a mental note to buy a new can of Right Guard (around £2 for a 250ml can of even the most basic variety) or Nivea For Men (nearer £2.75-ish) or Lynx (nearer £6) or Sure Do Smell or whatever, it slips my mind again within a matter of
seconds. It takes only the tiniest distraction: the dog needs feeding, the dishwasher needs emptying, an urgent notification has pinged on my phone, alerting me to the fact that someone I didn’t even know I followed on YouTube has just posted an important new video in which they show themselves opening a box, in case we’ve forgotten how to do that.
And once again, yep, I’ve failed to add deodorant to my shopping list.
Another day of me ponging. Or potentially so.
But that’s the other problem, because on some level I’m telling myself that deodorant is not an essential purchase. Not for me at least. I really don’t do a lot of sweating. I never raise my arms aloft and reveal embarrassing damp patches under each arm. To be honest, I rarely raise my arms aloft in any case — I mean, why the heck would I go around doing that? — but on the rare occasions I might do such a thing, such as when I’ve been ordered, at gunpoint, to perform the dance moves to YMCA, I’m confident my shirt will be patch-fee.
In my head, not wearing deodorant is a relatively minor thing, unlikely even to be noticed by those around me. It’s not like neglecting to brush my teeth for days on end, or repeatedly forgetting to put my trousers on.
But (and here comes a but whose significance I mustn’t play down) there’s always the possibility that I’m mistaken. I tend to be mistaken about quite a lot of things (arguably, most things), so being wrong about my need for deodorant should certainly not be ruled out.
Which is how I came to buy myself a can of Cien. To be precise, it’s a can of Cien Men Invisible Protect Anti-Perspirant, part of the own-brand toiletries range at budget retailer Lidl.
I bought it because it was cheap. My 250ml can cost me £1.09, little more than half the price of the basic Right Guard alternative. I was acknowledging the fact that I might
“The risk when you buy anything smelly at such a low price is that the smell might turn out to be an unpleasant one.”
need to wear this substance, while at the same time saving money, as I very much like to do. Not a huge amount of it, I grant you, but it all adds up over time.
The only other question I should maybe consider is: “Is it any good?” Cien Men Invisible Protect promises me “long-lasting freshness” and “no white marks”. That’s what it says on the can. It also says the can “may burst if heated”, but I currently have no plans to cook it, so I’m fairly relaxed in that regard.
“Do not spray on an open flame” is a warning for which I’m more grateful, as otherwise this would obviously have been the first thing I’d have done with it, way before all that pointless armpit-spraying nonsense.
So what about the smell? That’s also quite important, I appreciate. To me it smells fine, at least when it comes out of the can. Nothing too extreme, nothing too offensive. The risk when you buy anything smelly at such a low price is that the smell might turn out to be an unpleasant one. I might, for example, be spraying myself with
something that turns out to smell of chicken tikka masala. Not that the smell of chicken tikka masala upsets me in any way. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m just not sure it would be my armpit fragrance of choice.
Cien Men Invisible Protect gets mixed reviews online, but then, let’s face it, so does everything. People online are sometimes quite insane; have you noticed that?
No, I prefer to assess this product for myself, or wait to see if my nearest and dearest pass judgement. If they’re fine with it — or, better still, simply don’t comment — then I’ll probably make it a regular purchase. At approximately £1 less per can than a basic regular brand, my annual saving — although please bear in mind this is only a rough calculation — could be as much as, ooh, let me see now, three whole quid.
Finally, on a separate note, I’d welcome advice on how the word “Cien” should be pronounced. As it’s not a product range that’s advertised on TV (or not that I’ve noticed), nor likely to be the subject of everyday conversation (unless you work for Lidl, I suppose), then the way you’re meant to say that word is something of a mystery to me.
Is it pronounced “Seen”, for example? Or “Keen”? Or “Syen”? Or “Ky-en”?
I honestly haven’t a clue. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but I know I shan’t sleep soundly until I have the definitive answer.
“Cien” is the Spanish word for “a hundred”, I do know that much. But the Spanish pronounce it “Thyen”. And I’m sorry, but I’m never going to walk into a Lidl store and go: “Can you tell me where I can find your ‘Thyen’, please?” I do still have a little self-respect.
Unless, of course, they cut the price to 50p a can. In which case, they could call it Ketchup for all I care.