I got out the razor today. I stared at it for a couple of minutes, lost in thought, and then I replaced it exactly where it had been before. I do that sometimes, when I feel like I need a change, or if I just want to challenge myself to be tedious. The razor itself has come to symbolize a new me, either way I do it. Once it touches my face I know I can’t put it away again until I’ve finished, until I’ve done whatever it is I want to do with my facial hair. There’s nothing worse than choosing the electric razor and it runs out of juice before my face is pristine.
And it was the electric one I chose, which means I wasn’t going for the close shave, the one that makes my cheeks feel like a baby’s bottom. Instead, I thought long and hard about the one that gives me a solid 5 o’clock shadow when I’m done, like I’m some black Magnum P.I. without the bushy mustache, or a Don Johnson 80s type. There was just something about a 5 o’clock shadow on those guys that drove the ladies crazy. But then again, it was the 80s. Maybe I should have been staring at the manual razor instead.
But I hate shaving cream. I absolutely abhor it: the feel of it on my skin, the smell of it in the air, and the feeling that I’ll never be able to get it off my hands, no matter how much I wash them after the fact. I try to avoid it at all costs, but sometimes I just need something closer, like when I’m going for a job interview, or when we’re about to take family photos. Something like that. Luckily I haven’t had to worry about it too much lately, but I am feeling a wee bit scruffy these days. So I’ll probably get it out again tomorrow and stare it some more.
And maybe I’ll actually use it too.