Noni Brokers

Every few thousand miles, I stop back in at my favorite garage for the usual oil change and brake check. This place is as reliable as the sun after the rain, filled with forthright, self-respecting mechanics who always give sensible advice and never overcharge. These are guys who have readily worn the trademark of their honest living, faint traces of grease, under their nails seven days a week. That is until recent developments.

In the past six months when I have dropped around for the usual check up, I’ve noticed a trend in the shop. These mechanics are increasingly referring to themselves as “technicians” and living into the idea that scrubbed stains on hands is quite pass.

As I waited in line recently at this shop’s bistro-styled waiting room watching customers picking at their complimentary croissants, my favorite technician pushes through the swinging door that separates us from the work-area with its screaming pneumatic wrenches. I am caught off guard by something new in his appearance and realize that it is the pair of badass black nitrile gloves he is wearing. As he reviews my work order with me, I can’t stop staring at those tightly clad hands. He looks as though he is about to commit a crime instead of adjusting my brakes.

The desire to better one’s after-hours appearance with some simple protective gloves makes sense. It must be impossible to believe the night should belong to Michelob when every time you sip your drink, your grease-stained fingers are telling you who the day belongs to. Plus wearing gloves in the garage is not an altogether new idea. And the sexy black look has the added benefit of catching some appreciative female glances.

The trade hand cleansers that mechanics have used for decades can be very harsh on the skin. There is only so much exfoliating a pair of Vaselined-and-pumiced hands can take. Add that to a lack of humidity in the winter and you can have some real raw paws to deal with. Disposable nitrile gloves, particularly the black silky skin-fitting ones can be an answer to prayer.

I give my work estimate the OK and my mechanic (oops, “technician”) disappears back into the dark dominion of those screaming pneumatic wrenches. An hour later, my car is curbside waiting for me. As I get in, I can see the shop’s customary gift for their lady clients has been placed the seat next to me: A long stemmed red rose, laid there no doubt by a bad-boy black-gloved hand.

The author: Jen is a glove industry insider and also directs Web Community Support for a major online discount retailer in Nitrile gloves Sales. For info resources for those coping with gloves, visit Jen’s web-based library, nitrile gloves Knowledgebase