Chop, Chop

“Be careful how you use it!” warned the makers and/or marketers of Hai Karate aftershave lotion, but we paid them no mind. ‘Twas New Year’s Eve 1970 and we were ringing in the decade with great fanfare and little discretion. Our pant legs were flared, our shoes chunk-heeled, our silk-like polyester shirts open-collared and our toilet water intoxicating and free-flowing. We splashed Hai Karate about our faces and necks and across our wooly chests and stumochs; we drenched our underarms and did not ignore a generous dousing about our undersides. We—and by we, I mean me—were “all in,” as the arsewipes today would have it. That’s right, e-citizens, even a decorated, law-obeying-and-enforcing, uniformed official like Yours Truly Constable Dooley was sold on the notion of fending off ladybirds drawn to the scent of Hai Karate like moths to a flame. Ice-blue Aqua Vulva and sweaty Old Spice were bloody old hat, but the sticky sweet fragrance of original Hai Karate—and exotic Oriental Lime—in aftershave, cologne and fragranced soap on a twined rope—was anything but. ‘Twas what the scientists called an aphrodisiac, the surest ticket to an evening of carnal pleasures. “So powerful, it drives women right out of their minds” claimed the adverts and as evidenced by the frantic, public displays of affection, I so no reason to question it. ‘Tis why the Hai Karate gift sets came with a self-defensive karate instructional for any bloke—one spoken for by another, as I think of it—needing to block the advancing moves of wanton undesirables. ‘Twas all in good fun, of course, but there could be no denying the pheromonal allure of this new toilet water. Indeed, even the, by appearances, demure Prudence Elderberry—later, Missus Johns herself—was held in its sway. “Wow! What’s that after shave you’re wearing?!” she said upon our chance meeting at the coat check at Club Piccadilly Dally that night. What followed was a playful exchange of choreographed karate chops and soon we were taking our “hai stepping” moves to the dance floor, whiskey sours in hand. I worked myself into sweat and later administered a Hai Karate full-body colognic in the men’s latrine and the rest is his-and-her-story. Today the ballrooms are filled with the scent of a different “chopping device,” aka, Axe cologne. But times were simpler and sweeter-smelling 50 years ago. Happy memories, indeed, and a Happy New Year to all.