Bay Rum

There comes a time in every man’s life when he realises nature has gifted him a moustache so luxuriant it demands a level of reverence usually reserved for cathedral organs and steam locomotives. Not the sort of thing you can just ignore or casually trim like a teenager’s first beard. No – it requires presence. Gravitas. Authority.

And yet, what does the world offer in return? Wax. That ghastly, claggy nonsense designed to keep things in shape while sneakily smearing itself all over one’s glasses by mid-morning. No matter how sparingly applied or delicately combed, it always ends up somewhere it shouldn’t – usually on the left lens, somewhere between the bridge and a faint air of despair.

I put up with it for a while. Thought it was the done thing. Beard balm, moustache wax, a little tin in the pocket like some Edwardian snuff fiend. But the bloom wore off when I found myself cleaning my specs more often than my car.

Then came the revelation – Bay Rum. That glorious potion of yesteryear. Clove-scented, alcohol-laced, and utterly unapologetic. My father used Bay Rum. I remember the smell from when I was small – sharp, warm, reassuring. The sort of scent that said, “Everything’s under control,” even when it plainly wasn’t. Every time I uncap the bottle, there he is again – standing at the bathroom mirror, steeling himself for another day of whatever life was hurling at him.

I splash it on once each morning. That’s it. No faffing about later, no midday mop-ups. The hair – fine as it is – stops playing at being a haystack and lines up obediently. The moustache, once a wax-dependent diva, now falls into line like it’s been spoken to firmly by a no-nonsense sergeant major. Bay Rum breaks the overnight hair bonds like a sharp word in a quiet pub and sets everything back in order before you’ve even had your toast.

And it vanishes. That’s the beauty of it. Unlike water, which hangs around in the roots like an awkward guest, or wax, which turns up again on your spectacles at inconvenient moments, Bay Rum does its job and leaves. No mess. No residue. Just a faint whiff of tropical barbershop and paternal memory.

So here’s to Bay Rum. The quiet hero. No influencer ever mentions it. You won’t find it trending on TikTok. But it gets the job done with the quiet confidence of a man who’s fixed a boiler with a spanner and a frown. I’ll take that over a thousand beard oils and vanity pomades any day.

Progress, my friends, isn’t always shiny. Sometimes it smells like cloves and reminds you of your dad. Progress can also be deleterious - I'm 70 today.