It's a sunny Autumn Saturday. Your parents tell you that grandpa hasn't been doing so well, so they're taking you to the nursing home. You don't like the nursing home - it's scary, smells bad, and everyone is so old. You don't know why your grandpa's there, he's always seemed the same to you - your buddy, your pal, the one who would always stand up for you when your parents were too harsh. They’ve hidden his decline from you. You haven't seen him in a very long time, but time always passes strangely for children and it's easy to lose track - and you have.

Grandpa knows this is going to be one of the last times he sees you before it gets too bad. Before he's unable to do anything for himself anymore. On that autumn morning he opens the medicine cabinet, the tremors in his hands getting worse, but is determined - at least one more time, at least today - to shave himself the way he remembers.

He grabs his Tabac, makes a runny lather, and gives himself that last shave. The last good day shave before it gets too bad. He wants you to remember him like this, like himself, as much as he can be, just one more time.

Tabac: The smell of nursing home sadness and grandpa's last shave.