It started in January 2024. I bought a rectangular Camy watch that was a little on the smaller side. I was doubtful at first, even if only for a minute. That watch was 20mm by 40mm, roughly the same size as a small Cartier Tank Americaine. It fits me well. I wear it regularly.
In January this year I did the unthinkable and spoke to a girl. Things seemed to be headed in the right direction, but nothing came of it in the end. In my hurriedness, I gave her an old Edox watch I had laying around. I’ve mourned its loss and it no longer bothers me. Before we decided to end whatever we had, I stopped at my watchmaker in search of another ladies watch as a Valentine’s or birthday gift down the line. I didn’t buy anything, but I dug through a box he had and took note of what was available. One watch stood out to me: a black-dialed octagonal Camy.
I am shallow when it comes to my predisposition towards Camy. I have extensive history with the brand. If they made Camy turds and Camy viral infections, I know I would have my wallet out quickly. The Camy in the box was beautiful. I picked it up and put it on my wrist. Damn. Too small. I chatted some more and then left. Then I moved to Pretoria to pursue my studies in Actuarial Sciences, which is something one should never, ever do. The watchmaker was an hour and a half away. I thought about him often. I had no fixer-uppers and no project watches with me. I was alone, except for mathematics and statistics.
A month and a half passed. On campus, I met a girl. Let’s call her I. I is like me in that she is probably mega-autistic and is annoyed by our class rep. I know I said “girl,” but hold your horses. I is neither single nor my type. We spoke a bit and my hobby of watchmaking came up somehow. At this point, she mentioned that she had always wanted a little dainty oval women’s watch, but never found the right one at the right price.
My eyes lit up. The box. The box full of ladies watches now had someone to please. I told her that I was going back to my hometown and that my watchmaker likely had something right for her. She seemed happy.
I birthed a saying that any watch dealer can relate to, “women’s watches are like STDs; once you have them, you’re stuck with them.” Women’s watches are notorious for selling slowly. Margins are slim to the point that stocking any ladies’ watches short of the Lady-Datejust and bedazzled VCs and Pateks is effectively a liability. This is the reason I always recommend women I meet to get themselves a vintage watch. The value is undeniably excellent. Well, the value is only excellent if they know me. Having a ladies’ watch serviced is costly, which is why they’re so cheap. A service is effectively a write-off.
But not to me.
I fix watches because they’re designed to serve us. They have stories attached to them. They are poems constructed of steel and brass and sapphire. I service watches not because I want to make money, but because I want to see the fruits of my labour on people’s wrists. It’s my way of giving back to a world that showed me a lot of mercy. So when I returned to my hometown, I asked the watchmaker to bring out the box.
I rifled through it again. There it was: that same Camy. I put it aside. I dug some more and found an old Osco. I saved that one for I. Some more digging yielded many interesting watches: an automatic Cyma, an automatic Consul, a few square Lancos, the odd automatic Seiko and some nice Tissots. I felt some sympathy. Some looked to be new old stock, but thrown aside into a heap and left to rot. Some of them whispered, “What did I do to deserve this? You know I’m not meant to be here.”
I exercised restraint and only left with three watches. The watchmaker was kind to me and said I could pay him for the watches if I got them running, otherwise I could bring them back and let them sit another forty years. The three I left with were the aforementioned Osco I chose for I, the black-dialed Camy, and a just about men’s size Helsa.
The Helsa runs decently for a sixty-year-old pin-pallet. It has a Ronda 5011 movement behind the dial. Amplitude is decent for something of its nature. Squeezing anything more out of it takes time, effort and parts I don’t have. Running is running and it looks quite nice with its worn copper dial and rugged charm. Helsa is also an amazing name. I don’t know why, but it just sounds brutal. Axe-murderers wear Helsa watches. On my Expandro bracelet it looks especially period and for some reason, even more sinister. Am I just going crazy, or does anyone else imagine themselves an action movie hero covered in blood with a dainty little cheap watch on? I’m probably going crazy. Seeing as this watch has no model name, I’m calling it the Helsa Murderer.
The Osco ran as soon as I wound it and it’s kept time for two days. I gave the case a spit shine and put it in a bag for I. I gave it to her and she was reluctant to accept it. She initially said I could keep it and use it to motivate her to do well on her semester tests. After some more persuading I got her to slip it into her bag.
I serviced the Camy too. What I found was interesting to say the least. It features, get this, a Cartier 78/1 movement. You’re probably asking what a movement from a bona fide luxury watchmaker is doing in a thrown away Camy. Maybe you should ask yourself what a movement from a thrown away Camy is doing in a Cartier. This is my way of saying it has an ETA 2512-1. The Cartier 78/1 just has “Cartier” written on the train wheel bridge in crayon. In my mind at least, this gives the old Camy luxury watch chops. It’s mechanically identical to a Cartier Tank Must, but the case is gold-plated brass instead of vermeil. It’s also a bit smaller than the Tank Must and takes a 14mm strap. It also happens to say “Camy Genève” at 12, not “Cartier,” which means the watchmaker says, “Ag, I don’t think it’s worth much, you can just give me Rx,” instead of, “this is high horology, dickwad, give me the souls of your unborn children” when I wanted to buy it.
Now I have fallen in love with a watch I’m very sure is a ladies’ watch. It looks good on me and I’m not insecure at all. When this same situation happened last year, I essentially lied and told myself my other small Camy was a men’s watch. This time, I know it’s a women’s watch, but I’m unbothered. Am I just a small-watch cheapskate, or is the next step in the process lace panties?
The Escapement Room 