I have an idea.
My idea has drawn some doubt. Mockery even. But I will not be deterred.
Well, I don’t feel quite that strongly about it. Let’s just go with I won’t be deterred from talking about it.
Living with a hunter, I have discovered that one does not simply pick up their rifle, head out into the woods, then come home with a deer.
First of all, you can’t even use a rifle all the time. Or hunt deer all the time. But that’s a nuance of what’s in season, both animal-wise and weapon-wise, a primer I’m not interested in – nor capable of – setting forth here.
Amongst all the preparation for hunting deer – and maybe other animals; I wouldn’t know – a hunter must remove their human scent. From everything. Body. Hair. Clothes. Even deodorant must be neutral.
That neutrality of scent is something I only recently learned. I thought the scent-erasing products replaced human scent with, well, I don’t know. Deer scent. Outdoors scent.
But scent-erasing products just neutralize.
Now, my first concern wherever the outdoors are concerned is sunscreen. Well, really it’s snakes. But I can’t do anything about snakes until my family is ready to move to Ireland.
So I skip over the snakes and head for the sunscreen. I am as pale as this page and burn like cookies – fast and ugly. To my mind, a comprehensive line of scent-erasing products would include sunscreen. I mean, who is out in the sun more than hunters? Surely they’re slathered in SPF, right?
“Wrong,” Don informed me. Deer hunting means hiking to your perch in the dark – scary – then sitting in the shade, covered in camo head to toe. Just your eyes peek out, alert to your quarry.
“Eyes are so important to protect!” I exclaimed to Don. Those little lines, like crumpled tissue paper, creep up so easily in the pale, fragile skin around the eyes.
“Mmm, I don’t think hunters worry about crow’s feet,” Don mused. Well, I bet they do if they’re women. Or actually hunting crow. Or both.
“What about face wash?” I asked. That was when I discovered that Don uses the same soap on both his body and face. Not just during hunting season. All year round.
If I did that, the skin on my face would peel off in great big California king-sized sheets. I’d be so red and raw, I might as well have been sunburned.
“Moisturizer?” I ask, not hopeful that Don or hunters in general regularly moisturize their bodies.
I was right.
And also beginning to understand why I’m covered in bugs and bug bites at The Cabin while Don sits, peacefully reading his book and drinking his beer.
So no sunscreen, moisturizer, or face wash. My confusion about guns isn’t the only thing keeping me from using that hunting license. I could never leave the house without SPF and lotion.
Primer, concealer, and foundation too. Pale limeys like me are pretty splotchy. Bright red welts bloom across our faces when – I don’t know, take your pick. The wind shifts. Sunlight reflects off the patio. A polar bear dives into the Atlantic. A comet circles Neptune.
While discussing hunters’ atrocious body and face care with Don – or at least Don’s atrocious body and face care – I realized I could make and market the products Don is lacking. Products for the skin-conscious hunter. Or the vain hunter.
“I don’t think so,” Don said. Which I should probably heed. He’s my biggest cheerleader. If he says hunting products marketed to hunters by someone who’s never been hunting, can’t fire a gun, and doesn’t like the outdoors is going to fail, he’s probably right.
But I’m kind of stubborn. So I kept pestering him.
Achieving a scent-neutral product might be tough. But are there scents that deer are cool with?
“Acorn,” Don said. Which would be perfect. Imagine a face soap with finely ground acorns, scenting the wash and exfoliating the face.
“Also corn,” Don said. Which is less perfect. I don’t think anyone would want to smell like corn. Besides, I would need to grow corn to make corn products. Between corn snakes and Children of the Corn, I know bad things turn up when you start planting corn. No thanks.
I’ve been thinking about starting an apiary in the backyard. I could use the honey to make my hunters’ body care products. Burt’s Bees does it. How hard could it be?
Plus, there’s a restaurant at The Cabin – literally a restaurant. If you want something besides that restaurant, you need to drive further than the twenty minutes this particular restaurant takes to arrive at from The Cabin. You also need to be comfortable in a likely Witness Protection Program-type situation.
This restaurant at The Cabin had a craft fair last year. When the local vineyard markets a wine they declare to be perfect for game meat, and that vineyard is two minutes from the restaurant, you’re probably going to hit the demographic for your hunters’ honey-acorn wash at that craft fair.
“I’m sure that will be successful,” Don sighed. Which I think means it won’t be successful. But I don’t always believe the things that come out of his mouth. Or want to believe them.
“I need a name,” I mused out loud. Should I go the Ben & Jerry’s route and name my soap after myself? Or should I subscribe to the Steve Jobs line of thinking and name my soap something that has nothing to do with my product?
“Rank’s Hunting Soap!” I exclaimed to Don. My catchphrase could be “Rank’s Hunting Soap – We’re Rank so you don’t have to be” or “You’ll only be Rank to the animals.” Something like that.
“I don’t think anyone will use soap called ‘Rank,’” Don said. Which is ridiculous. I dated a guy named Rank, and I did a lot more than just put him on my body. Also, we’re spending a full July weekend with other hunters and anglers with no toilets and no showers so how picky can this demographic really be?
That plumbing-free weekend is a whole other problem I’m having. We’ll talk soon.
“What about Pope on a Rope?” I exclaimed. “All of my products can have a rope through them so you can hang it on a branch or whatever crazy thing outdoorsmen need to do with their products.” Which bought me a look that said this was wrong in so many ways that Don didn’t know where to begin.
“People will think it has something to do with The Pope,” Don said. As if I haven’t spent my whole life having people think my name has something to do with The Pope. Or my uncle the cardinal. Or my cousin the bishop.
People are not really innovative when it comes to Pope jokes. They know there’s a joke in there somewhere. They just can’t ever find it.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll call it Pope’s on a Rope.”
“Well then people will think it has to do with all the Popes.” Which I don’t think is my problem. If you don’t know that “Pope’s” possessive isn’t “Popes” plural we are not going to get along. Ever.
“I’ll put my picture on it,” I said, putting the matter to bed.
I still think I’m onto something, although Don is adamant I’m not. That’s OK. I just discovered a new product I’ll need to add to my hunters’ acorn-honey skincare line.
I was telling a friend about the shower-free weekend I’ll soon be experiencing.
“Dry shampoo,” she said. “It is your friend.”
So I enlightened Don to the dry shampoo suggestion. He told me he’d already thought about it and was going to buy me some.
“Don’t!” I said. I can’t just buy any old dry shampoo. Sensitive, splotchy skin like mine is touchy. I need to sample the product first, to make sure it doesn’t give me a rash or make me bald or cause my organs to erupt from my belly button.
My dry shampoo is on the way. I bought it from Gwyneth Paltrow, who seems to know how sensitive my skin is and has never steered me wrong.
And who, I notice, doesn’t sell skincare for hunters on her website.
I’ll fix that.
