Razor sharp close shaves

As a wee child I used to be fascinated by the shaving process. Watching the guv’nor do his daily ritual with brush, soap and water was possibly the nearest thing to the perfect start of a day that one reads about in verse and song.

I also had several family members (male, of course) who resembled a moving mass of hair rather than a human, and I suspect they shaved at least twice a day. They got to mind the celebrated Russian novelist Vladimir Brusiloff, peering at the world through dense shrubbery.

I despaired of ever having enough dermal growth to merit more than a token scratching of an otherwise innocent face, interrupted midway by a foul pair of spectacles which looked more like windshields than ocular aids. The angst was deepened in the latter part of school, when I had classmates who claimed (as adults in schools are wont to do) that they shaved several times daily.

I am no pogonophobe, but men who looked like Assyrians coming down on the fold were excluded from my social circle upon pain of dry shaves.

Coming to teenhood, the epidermis still refused to sprout, and I was left forlorn, condemned to a hairless hell that threatened to deepen an existential angst. I used to gaze wistfully at the array of shaving creams, after shaves, and razors that lined the shelves of the neighbourhood pharmacy. The owner of the pharmacy did not help matters by waxing lyrical about the merits of menthol v/s plain, cream v/s foam, and multi-blade v/s single blade. The maniacal gleam in his beady eyes as he gazed sideways at me while extolling these questionable virtues to profusely clean-shaven customers excited a desire to inflict grievous bodily harm on his closely-shaven face.

And the guv’nor continued with his daily ritual. Which now seemed an infliction of barbarous proportions rather than a celebration of the dapperness that he was known for.

I at last reached man’s estate and started praying fervently for lush tendrils of growth to adorn my rather chubby face, now graced with the kind of spectacles that John Lennon wore. I pottered around doing odd-jobs and to my jaundiced eyes every boss I worked with flaunted a spotless chin and reeked of the latest after-shave lotion. I even started chanting an invocation called “The Hökutoppur”, hoping that this ancient Icelandic song would invoke various Nordic gods to bless me with Viking-esque growths which would involve long hours of shaving. But…nada.

The years passed. I finally started shaving but it was more a token gesture (like elections) rather than a full commitment to facial governance. And even these gestures caused pain as my face remained smooth as silk. Not for me "the heavenly touches on earthly faces" of ol' Bill (ya ya he was as bearded as a clam.) Since I had started earning my keep I invested in multi-blade razors, electric shavers, aloe-enriched foams, and gels with chamomile extracts, to be ready for the day when I could plough through the foliage like a lawn mower gone doolally.

And at long last, came the day! When I noticed a heavier than usual stubble. A proper, dark mantle upon my chin, rather than a smudge. When mom commented that I looked like something from under a stone. I grabbed my latest, 5-blade, titanium-edged razor made from the same material as the space shuttle. I lathered on the rich, bergamot-scented foam gifted by a beautifully-shaven friend who took pity on me one rainy Sunday. My hands moved over my chin and cheeks like Sir Zubin leading the Vienna Philharmonic through a thunderous Straussian symphony. The smooth skin that emerged was as bewitching as Venus appearing from the sea.

However, I have not reached the stage of daily shaves, and never will. I have made my peace with this dermatological anomaly, and in keeping with my Gemini character I now sport a rather lush beard that startles passers-by and makes them hurry on away from me. 

After all, close shaves are for those who walk close to the edge.