A few weeks ago I was on vacation in the White Mountains spending a little time out of the urban sweatbox that was Brooklyn to hike, swim, and generally frolic in nature. Nature, of course being a mountain resort and a series of well maintained hiking trails.
I had my bathing suit, my phone, my wallet, ID, spare keys, and my neighbor was checking in on my rabbit every other day. I had everything I needed, however in my haste to escape the city at the height of this relentlessly oppressive onikare we call ‘July’ I had forgotten to pack a disposable razor.
Now, I am a scruffy, curly Jew-fro’d young man and I have a wealth of accoutrements to maintain my beard to an acceptable length and level of tidiness becoming with social decorum and standards of decency. We are not grizzled prospectors, it is not the 19th century, and there is no reasonable excuse to go around looking like a 49er from summer stock or a dinner theatre.
Seeing as I was out of New York and in the wild, rugged vastly uncharted summer resort town of Lincoln, New Hampshire, I thought I might be able to make it through the week without a shave – I had pruned the topiary the day before I left in anticipation of a packed schedule, but my facial hair seems to grow twice as fast as usual, and so by midweek I had the beginnings of a neck-beard and seeing as we were going out to dinner every night something had to be done if I was going to be seen in public.
I could have gone and bought a pack of safety razors, however seeing as the nearest store was a good few miles into town and I was at the vehicular mercy of others, I deigned simply to borrow a razor from one of the lady-folk in our party. It was pink, plastic and looked like a prop out of an after-school special on the miracle of ‘becoming a woman.’
I’m telling you right now, I may never go back.
Whenever I shave my neck, there is usually a nick or two that requires the application of a small square of toilet tissue. I have used this same razor THRICE (I packed in my suitcase to test my little theory) and have had nary a splotch of blood, and I’m telling you I could have shellacked my neck in after-shave and wouldn’t have felt even the slightest hints of burning.
How was the shave? My neck is doubtlessly comparable to the buttocks of a newborn baby. I have NEVER had a shave this smooth that stayed smooth for at least two days. Don’t get me wrong, I actually enjoy shaving and the various bathroom rituals of manhood, but not having even a trace of stubble for two days is akin to splitting the atom.
Currently I am engaged in some research to determine if women’s’ razors have finer, more delicate blades (something to do with shaving legs and, most of the time, underarms) or if there is some vast conspiracy afoot to deny men the same quality of product that has been bequeathed on the XX chromosome crowd since time immemorial.
Consequently gentlemen, if you see me at Duane Reade browsing the women’s’ toiletry section, you won’t have to ask yourself why.