I didn’t expect my day would end the way it did. And nor should I have expected it to end the way it did. Nobody should. Friday morning, I have to be up fairly early, and go to an art school and do a workshop. Minds need moulding. So I figured I’d have an early night. I was in bed by 11.30, firing up an episode of Men of a Certain Age, then I realised that maybe I should give my beard a trim. It wasn’t too bad, but a bit more neat and tidy wouldn’t go amiss. So I trundled off, walked the two metres to my en suite bathroom, and plugged in my trusty Panasonic beard trimmer. Setting number 3, and away I went. Trim, trim, trim. All good. This cheek, that cheek, the neck bit, the goatee and moustache areas. Done. I should just tidy up those stray hairs along the bottom, then we’re done. I took off the plastic thingy that regulates the trimming settings, so that I’ve got the bare blades to catch those stray hairs.
Something I’ve done many times. I start, and for some reason, I decide to tidy up in a line along the edge of the beard. Mistake. Big mistake. My first trim was a bad one, cutting a V shape of hair out of the side of my neck. I washed my face. Dried my face. Inspected the damage. No way around it, captain: you’ve gotta shave your beard off. So I keep trimming in the same bare blade fashion. This will take me down to a five o’clock shadow all over. Not the worst thing. One cheek done and, the trimmer stops. I remove it from my face, it fires up again. Put it back. It stops. I disassembled the top bit, and with my Swiss Army knife blade and a bit of blowing, get rid of as much clogging up beard trimmings as possible.
Same thing happens again, though. I gave it a bit of oil. No difference. Okay, gonna have to shave properly. I have a disposable razor in my washbag, no problem. I soaped up my face, and started shaving. I might as well have been using coin for all the hair that was being removed by this blunt razor. Fantastic. Face in various levels of shavedness. Bullet bit: shirt, trousers, and shoes on. Shuffled to the 7-Eleven to buy a new razor. They didn’t sell them. Shuffled further – oh how I wish I’d bothered to put a belt around my trousers – to Oxxo, a Mexican convenience store chain. I bought a two pack of razors with an ominous brand name: Perfect Max. Bound to be shit. And they were. I went through both of them to get rid of the rest of my beard. And there’s still the odd bit of stubble hear and there. So now it’s 1.15 in the morning. I’ll have to get up earlier to go to a pharmacy to buy a proper Gillette or something, so that those minds are moulded by someone whose face doesn’t look like an abandoned plot of land. (Yep, I realise I’d already be in bed now if I wasn’t writing and publishing this post. Ich bin ein idiot.)