Forget the age-old question of how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. I want to know how many grey-haired, middle-age women can balance on the edge of a razor. Today. How many of us—today—stretched and strained our spreading bodies to draw razors across our skin?
I shaved my legs this morning. I can't rightly remember how long it's been. I do know that shaving cream has squatted on my mental grocery list for the past month. I do know I meant to do it before I went to Minnesota 10 days ago. I do know that when a friend patted my leg the other day, fur compressing beneath the squashy black pile of my pants gave me shivers.
The shaving cream's a clue. When the hair is short, still whiskery, shower gel is enough lubricant for the job. It's only when the hair goes soft that shaving cream's required.
I am the only person for whom I shave my legs these days, and that hasn't been enough reason to bother. For a long time.
I plucked the whiskers from my chin before stepping into the shower for the shaving operation. Upon hearing the unmistakable thwip that accompanies a successful tweeze, I thought, "Where's James Lipton when you need him? That's "a sound or noise that I love." That thwip, is so different from the thisp of a hair escaping my grasp. Thwip is the sound of victory! Thwip is the sound of completion!
When the victories of your life are small, you must celebrate them with enthusiasm. And exclamation points.
Seeing mine requires 200x reading glasses and a 5x magnifying mirror.
6 comments:
Well, as one who remember the Jan. 8 post, I'd surely say you're the prettiest member of the sasquatch family I've ever seen.
I'm so glad to know I'm not the only one who gets such satisfaction out of those plucked hairs! Thanks for the chuckle!
There is nothing more satisfying than getting those stubborn ones. The sound is heaven, whatever the hell it sounds like. Heaven.
I shaved my legs for the physical therapist I will be exposing my right leg to this afternoon. It had been a long, long time!
The realization that I shave nearly 75% of my body every other day and then have to pluck at least another 5% has never escaped my mental facilities, physical either. If it did, you'd see the real susquatch-right here-GROAN
I say we all move to Europe.
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