Stubble Trouble

I have hated shaving ever since I was eight and ripped multiple holes in my face and neck with a disposable razor trying to mimic my father. Much like a girl who developed earlier than the other girls in High School, I’m not afraid to say that I have been well endowed in the stubble department for quite some time. While I didn’t get called names or have my bra strap snapped by immature boys who were trying to hide their feelings towards me, it never sat well with me because I hated shaving it.

Unfortunately, it is one of life’s necessary evils – like war, religion, and wearing pants in public. The hair on my face is not going to disappear of its own volition and I am incapable of growing a proper beard. For years I’ve tried various hair removal methods. 

Various means two, right? 

One was a beard trimmer and the other was your normal run-of-the-mill razor. For years the beard trimmer worked as I embraced the rugged manliness of uneven hair on my face, coupled with the dry, itchy skin it left behind. 

For the very few occasions I did have to shave, I’d dust off the rusty old 5 blade Fusion that was about as sharp as the handle of a soup spoon. I would go to town on my face the night before whatever it was I was shaving for in order to give the wounds enough time to clot and heal a little.

It was by no means an ideal situation and I found myself postponing shaving until it was at itching point – which is also the most painful point at which to shave. I even grew a goatee – twice, I think – and definitely attempted a beard (more than a few times). 

This year I decided this shit had to change. 

I had fallen into a vicious circle of not wanting to buy a new blade because of the expense, only to rip my face apart with the blunt old blade which I refused to replace.

I went to the fountain of knowledge that is the internet to look for answers. My first stop on the internet was to the fountain of knowledge that is Dooley. Asking him if he happened to have done any research on razors and blades and shaving creams, he responded that he had done extensive research.

I took his advice to the letter, and bought the suggested items. The main one was a new chrome safety razor, nothing like the pieces of shit that you find at the local pharmacy. 

The word safety was doing a lot of heavy lifting here. 

The name hints at added protection for my jugular but I only saw it as an instrument of imminent death. Introducing an element of danger into the bathroom is a sure way to spice up your shave life, I assure you. Not only that, but it gives a shave smoother than Michael Buble’s voice dressed in silk sliding down a bowling lane. I’ve gone so far as to buy myself what amounts to my own shaving kit, complete with a shaving bowl, badger-hair brush, and even some fancy aftershave that I didn’t buy out of a stall at an agricultural show.

The first shave was a disaster, which my researcher had warned me about, as I ripped myself an entirely new neck. The next one was much better as I learned how to handle the razor and became one with the blade. 

From the third time on, shaving became less of a chore and more of a meditation, a ritual in self-care, and something I started to enjoy, nay look forward to each time.

I had managed to turn something that bothered me almost daily into something I had started to take pride in. As an added bonus, I now have my own items to leave lying around the sink and teetering over the edge of the shelf above the toilet so my wife can see how annoying it is. I’m sure she’ll notice any day now.