Axe. They have all these hideously sexist commercials that invariably leave me massively irritated every time I accidentally see one. I've managed to successfully avoid them for quite a while now, but the other day Jordan and I were pulling up something to watch on Hulu, and lo and behold, a commercial for the new "Axe Detailer" paraded itself before my eyes.
Amused, Jordan argued with me for a short time, but I stand by my initial assessment. Here is the Axe "Detailer" (a.k.a. man poof):
I love my new job. I really do. The constant challenges of real estate are always exciting to me, and I love the small group of people I work with. But when my boss asked me to schedule a photo shoot for new team photos and a portrait of me for my business cards, I immediately hated my life. Having my picture taken is something I'm usually okay with, but a professional photo shoot? Ack!
Dutifully I called the photographer and scheduled the appointment, and on the assigned day, the three of us - myself, my boss, and the buyer agent - all drove to the studio. The photographer instantly put me at ease and I started to relax. She was gentle, soft spoken, and her studio felt homey. She chatted with us for a while, then sent us to the area where she planned to take her pictures. I looked down to make sure I was standing where she had asked me to, and when I looked back up, everything had changed.
Her eyes blazed red behind her camera, and I swear I could see tiny horns poking up from her forehead. "Rebecca! Get closer to Frank! Get that hair out of your eyes! Rob! Put that hand in your pocket!" The orders were barked with ferocity, and we scrambled to obey. She grinned at us, baring sharp, pointed teeth. "HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY!" I managed a bright false smile, shaking in my 4" heeled pumps.
The ordeal continued for several excruciating minutes as she snarled and snapped. Finally she walked over to me and raked my bangs out of my face. "Do you have any hairspray?" she asked. I told her I didn't, and felt my eyes widen as her eyes flared a brighter red and steam trickled out of her ears. "I'll fix it with Photoshop," she grated to herself. I resolved to have at least eight cans of hairspray in my car from then on out.
The shooting continued until she was satisfied. "All right," she said cheerfully, all trace of the demonic presence inhabiting her slight frame gone without a trace. "Let's take a look!" She loaded the photos onto her computer and projected the results onto a screen against the far wall. She offered friendly, gentle advice on which photos she would recommend. When we had decided, she turned to me. "We're doing a portrait of you by yourself, right?"
And it started all over again.
By the end of the two and a half hours that we were there, I felt like I had been raked over the coals. But the photos turned out nicely.