Close Shave © August 2009 Ian Buchanan
http://www.thejettyjournals.com
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Maybe I can be like those handsome men on the shaving ads.
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Blobbed out, on the couch. I was there, in the zone, and a shaving ad was playing.
Behind me, The Slug, in her most insulting, mocking voice, moaned, "Oooh, Sandra McKenzie, I love you." On the screen the traditionally sultry, shaving-ad blonde was admiringly stroking the cheek of Newly Shaven Man. How did The Slug know I was imagining I was Shaving Man, and Sandra was miraculously my admirer?
She got me every time. And today, of all days, my 16th birthday. If she couldn't be respectful of her older brother, she should have at least been trying to be nice. Annoyed, I got up and flattened her with a pillow, and slouched off to my room. With the curtains closed, and the music up loud, I could forget about my woeful family for a little while.
But not for long. As The Birthday Boy I was dragged out for the family dinner, and the usual gaggle of inbred aunties and hateful cousins arrived to go through the routine of pretending it was nice to see each other. It must be all of, what, three days since the last family event.
There was my "favourite" meal to digest. Gifts. Or rather "Gifts". A real gift might be something you value. Not a weapon used to humiliate you in front of a crowd. A lame t-shirt. Ha. Underwear! Hilarious. A hat? What is the meaning behind that? Do I look like the sort of pervert who wears a HAT?
But last of all was a heavy, small, polished wood box. It felt...substantial. I opened it, and inside a treasure gleamed: a silvery, solid, subtlely-crafted shaving safety-razor. A polished, wooden-handled shaving brush was in the box as well. Both items were classy, and stylish, and despite myself I admired them.
The usual heckling of the village-idiots in the family stopped as I held the items up for inspection. They were equally impressed. Except for The Slug, who mischievously pursed her lips. I could see her mouthing, "Sandra!".
We got through the rest. The singing, the cake. A kiss from the various aunties. Finally they all went home and the house was quiet again.
I don't need to shave all the time, just yet, but like everyone at school I pretend I do. We don't sit around swapping shaving stories, but I have heard others say they use this or that...disposable razors, rechargeable hand-helds and so on. No one uses an old-fashioned one like mine.
I examined the box and the brochure that came with it. It was an English piece, hand-made, from a family business that had been doing it for hundreds of years. It must have been expensive. Despite the traditional heritage, the technology was up to date, and it was promised to be a diamond-tipped blade that would stay sharp for years. "The closest shave you will ever experience."
My eyes closed and I thought of Sandra Mckenzie, unable to control herself as she lovingly stroked my cheek, cooing, "So smooth." I opened my eyes and jumped up and headed for the bathroom. Let's give this thing a whirl.
It was a dream to use. The brush, and the special tube of liquid soap, burst into creamy white froth that luxuriously coated my face, and the blade whisked lightly over my skin. The usual tricky bits around my nose and near my ear....no problems! It only took a few minutes, and, while I might not be an objective judge, it did seem that the shave was indeed close. I ran my fingers over my freshly cropped cheek, and they slid gently, across silky-smooth skin. This was a really good present!
Pleased, I admired myself in the mirror, carefully cleaned and packed up my new razor, and went off to bed. Let's see if Sandra McKenzie noticed how debonair I looked, tomorrow.
