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loewenherz
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loewenherz
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'Kevin is not a name, but a diagnosis'
summed up a teacher a few years ago, what everyone had already suspected. Few names are as negatively connoted in educated German society as Kevin, and that teacher, whose quote quickly made its way through print media and social networks, also candidly admitted that Pauline, Maximilian, and Friedrich have an advantage over Cindy, Justin, or indeed Kevin from early childhood on - and will likely remain so for a lifetime.
Other countries, other customs. Recently, I spent a few days in Buenos Aires, and what struck me on the way from the airport to the city were towering billboards and later in the subway and at bus stops (in a density and presence that even Dior's Sauvage hasn't achieved here after its launch), was the advertisement for a - to me completely unknown - Eau de Toilette named Kevin. I photographed one such billboard in the Subte, as the subway is called there, and uploaded it - looks relatively normal, right? At Farmacity, the Argentine equivalent of Rossmann or dm, I later discovered Kevin (and his brothers Kevin Absolute, Kevin Spirit, and Kevin Black, probably there are many more) - 100 ml for the equivalent of well under ten euros, remarkably cheap even for a drugstore perfume.
None of the fragrance ingredients listed above are perceptible - not even remotely. Instead, Kevin is the essence of an unfathomably artificial shower gel scent - metallic-sweet-ozonic with a impertinent soapiness that has nothing in common with the soapiness we sometimes talk about in old-fashioned French or British men’s fragrances. Since there are no test strips or papers in Argentine drugstores, I had to test it on my skin and then - in good thirty-five-degree Celsius outdoor temperature - fight the vision all afternoon that my skin at this spot would irreversibly turn green. Additionally, it should be noted that Kevin's brothers (even though I haven't tested them on my skin) smell consistently just as terrible.
Conclusion: you notice it after you’ve smelled it - Kevin is everywhere in Argentina. On taxi drivers and waiters, on cashiers in kiosks and supermarkets - the widespread plastering seems to work well, as the male service population (presumably with little money for a perfume) almost continuously follows the call to use Kevin. Therefore, it also applies here: Kevin is not a name, but a diagnosis. And even if it's just for the waiter approaching with the menu.
Other countries, other customs. Recently, I spent a few days in Buenos Aires, and what struck me on the way from the airport to the city were towering billboards and later in the subway and at bus stops (in a density and presence that even Dior's Sauvage hasn't achieved here after its launch), was the advertisement for a - to me completely unknown - Eau de Toilette named Kevin. I photographed one such billboard in the Subte, as the subway is called there, and uploaded it - looks relatively normal, right? At Farmacity, the Argentine equivalent of Rossmann or dm, I later discovered Kevin (and his brothers Kevin Absolute, Kevin Spirit, and Kevin Black, probably there are many more) - 100 ml for the equivalent of well under ten euros, remarkably cheap even for a drugstore perfume.
None of the fragrance ingredients listed above are perceptible - not even remotely. Instead, Kevin is the essence of an unfathomably artificial shower gel scent - metallic-sweet-ozonic with a impertinent soapiness that has nothing in common with the soapiness we sometimes talk about in old-fashioned French or British men’s fragrances. Since there are no test strips or papers in Argentine drugstores, I had to test it on my skin and then - in good thirty-five-degree Celsius outdoor temperature - fight the vision all afternoon that my skin at this spot would irreversibly turn green. Additionally, it should be noted that Kevin's brothers (even though I haven't tested them on my skin) smell consistently just as terrible.
Conclusion: you notice it after you’ve smelled it - Kevin is everywhere in Argentina. On taxi drivers and waiters, on cashiers in kiosks and supermarkets - the widespread plastering seems to work well, as the male service population (presumably with little money for a perfume) almost continuously follows the call to use Kevin. Therefore, it also applies here: Kevin is not a name, but a diagnosis. And even if it's just for the waiter approaching with the menu.
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