"A little something for him (and you too)"

I guess I have a thing about cosmetic advertisments, sorry. When I received my Tesco delivery yesterday, I had a free gift. It was from Nivea (a cosmetic company), and the little white plastic bag read; "A little something for him (and you too)" So first off, I observe the assumption that the person who has taken receipt of the groceries is (a) a woman and (b) in some kind of heterosexual relationship. But since I tick both boxes on this occasion, I can only presume that Tesco, having ascertained every detail of my personal life by analysing the purchase of Value Loo Rolls and Fair Trade Teabags, have only sent these out to shoppers who fall within the appropriate demographic. Inside the bag there are three sample bottles of cosmetic product (deodorant, face wash and moisturiser) from the Nivea for Men range and a leaflet. On the front of which reads "How to keep his big fingers out of your precious little pot of moisturiser..." Not a challenge I face, I must say, but I am concerned about these big fingers. Is there something somehow repellent about big fingers? And what’s so precious little pot thing about? This wouldn't be a horrible euphemism for something, surely? In any case, I now find myself reading literature addressed to me, yet in possession of cosmetic products which are meant for some masculine other. Not any masculine other, but him, whoever he is. What am I supposed to do with these things? Administer them myself while the great hairy big-fingered beast is fast asleep? And will this 15ml bottle be enough to quench the thirst of those big probing fingers? Much to my relief, I find the information I need inside. "…encourage him to use his own: Tell him his skin is different to yours. Every time he shaves he removes a layer of skin and the natural oils that help protect him from harmful UVAs and UVBS. If he had an Extra Smoothing Moisturiser, specially formulated for a man’s skin after shaving, he’d be able to soothe his skin and protect his face from skin-ageing rays. Tell him it’s either this or you’ll chop his fingers off." I kid you not. Now that last line is a euphemism, surely? As if the guy isn’t emasculated enough having received a somewhat patronising lecture on skincare (or mere care as the Nivea website would have it). The leaflet then goes on to give me a £1 money-off voucher so that next time I am shopping, I might purchase some Extra Soothing Moisturiser so that he will use his own. I strongly object to the implication that I should play mother to another adult. I don't want to have to bully another adult into using cosmetics, just as I don't want to have to dress him, teach him how to be a good lover, get him in touch with his feelings. Similarly, I don't need adverts which suggest that men are so profoundly useless at laundry, cooking, cleaning and decorating that I might as well do it all myself. The cute but useless man stereotype is not only insulting to men, a truly appalling message to pass on to boys, but it also burdens women with responsibility for - and supposed expertise in - all things domestic and mundane. For a very long time, women have had the lion's share of purchasing power in cohabiting couples (which make up a huge proportion of households). Even in the fifties, when many married women had no income of their own, it was women deciding on almost every purchase except for a few big items like cars. And for a long time, women were told what to wash their floors or plaster their faces with by an authorative male voice who'd threaten to befuddle our poor little minds with pseudo-science. Is is any great improvement to be cast in the role of expert? I thought a UVB was a type of contraceptive device. Still, I decide to give it a go and approach my beloved. "Your skin is different to mine," I recite. AJ looks up, considers this for a moment. Then he says, "Yeah. Perhaps you should try getting more sun on you?"