Saturday 28 February 2009

Raggy

Reluctant as I am to cast myself as some sort of amiable buffoon (which has been an irritating aspect of my personality for some time, as it happens) I feel the need to relate my first shaving experience. This rite of passage for us males (before anyone says anything, I do know that girls also occasionally slide the blade over their skin - it just doesn't carry the same sets of neuroses, and I wouldn't dream [incidentally] of trying to equate menstruation with shaving as life burdens either, but that's another story) is quickly forgotten because face scraping becomes such a part of adult life that it's as commonplace as brushing one's teeth.

But the first shave.

Now that's something else, as Cat Stevens was well aware. Rod, on the other hand, I assume to be one of those blond bumfluff merchants. I could be wrong, of course, what with media management and all.

As a (pre-?)pubescent young man, I held off on the razor for longer than was strictly necessary, I guess I would have to say. My best friend could easily (might well have) been a Great Dane with a fondness for diamond shaped biscuits, as the tufty growths burst forth from my chin unmolested by the products of Mr Gillette, Mr (and Mrs) Wilkinson, or Mr Kiam.

At last, three of my classmates could stand it no more and cornered me one day in the art room, one on each arm - with the third brandishing a paint encrusted Stanley knife. But this was rural Shropshire, not some inner city ghetto, and was at a time before the dreaded blight of gang culture became such a fashionable feature for our newspaper editors, so I did not fear for my life. I was proud, however, of my growth, and enjoyed stroking it in my more pensive moments (was it to be another packet of Spangles, or should I opt for Space Dust? Tough decisions, I'm sure you'll agree) so I was not looking forward to the impending Lord of the Flies moment. But I was powerless to resist as the long strands of man hair were teased out, and winced as the dull blade ground its way through them one by one (or so it seemed) until I was at last metaphorically emasculated, not quite Eyeless in Gaza, but certainly bumfluffless in Croeswylan School.

I have of course never been able to look back, and stare in wonder at the current pepper and salt manifestations which re-appear with startling regularity, refusing to believe the debunking of the myth of post-mortem hair growth.

6 comments:

Michael said...

No chin should ever be molested by either of the Wilkinson's these days. Razor factory closing bastards (or in honour of their new German location razorfactoryclosingbastarden).
Electric only, these days. Which reminds me...

Myeral said...

I mix and match. Couple of days wet shave and the rest electric. I just think razors are so bloody expensive, but beards are an enormous pain in the arse.

Michael said...

I'm a brown (and slightly grey) haired man who suffers from a ginger beard. All my mother's fault, but it does make a beard growth a bit of a no-no.

Myeral said...

Could you go for the pirate look if you let it run wild?

Michael said...

Redbeard, you mean?
Would be a conversation starter in class, at the very least.

Myeral said...

Yarrr. No doubt there are some rules forbidding it - even assuming you would want to?