Cream de la Cream

I used shaving cream for the first time in about 6 months today.

While in London, I have picked up the curious habit of refusing to use shaving cream. I am not sure why. It must have been that I went into the bathroom one day, fully intending on using my Barbasol Beard Busting Cream, when, alas, there was none. I probably stared, forlorn, into the empty space in my cabinet that was usually occupied by said BBBC for a couple of moments. The inevitable awaited: I had a decision to make. To shave, or not to shave.

Given societal standards of conduct- I shaved, with only a bit of water dabbed onto my neck. (Did I mention, I only needed to shave my neck? I don't shave my face. Ever. I rock the stubble.)

Ever since then, I have never used shaving cream. I simply soak my neck in hot water, grab a razor and have at it. At first, I'll admit, it was difficult. My skin would get beet red and occasionally bleed. But, like a Kung Fu monk's fists, after repeated abuse I have finally made myself strong. Now I can drag those twin shards of precision cut steel across the most sensitive of skin (that area where my chin’s horizontal underside meets my vertical neck, in the vicinity of my Adam’s apple) and walk away smiling. I’m not smiling because I look good. I’m smiling because I did it.

The intelligent thing to do would be to just buy some more shaving cream. It’s cheap, effective, and the most manly of cosmetics. But, I think the reason I don’t use it is, well, truthfully, I want to be ready--

Ready, if I ever have to go back to ‘Nam.

Dissolve…
(Cue “Time of the Seasons”- The Zombies)