My Burn Ritual

I am all that is man, and as such, my testosterone levels are off the fucking chart. Men tremble while in the presence of my virility. Women swoon with a whiff of my potent man musk. Children cry from the knowledge that my fiercely refined masculinity pales their fathers'.

But alas, being a man and a half is not all it's cracked up to be. The problem with testes the size of kumquats is the ferocious growth rate of my bold-bristled beard. Whispering whiskers are an endangered follicle within the fur ecosystem on my face. Sandpaper stubble is the norm.

Based on stubble strength, I cannot rule out the possibility that, if left to grow, the epic facial feature would reach two or three feet in length with enough girth to conceal a weapon, ferret, and a small child. If I was a caveman neanderthal, or a dirty hipster from the east side, I'd proudly sport the magnificent man-beard. Unfortunately, my high-powered, sales-oriented, client-facing vocation of importance dictates the face be kept an uninhabited expanse of opportunity.

Truly a blank canvas has never begged for a greater work of art; be that as it may, I conform, and shave the shit out of that bastard.

My morning shave ritual sees me up at o'dark:thirty. Fumbling while half asleep, I manage to clear cut the beastly five o'clock shadow from yesterday with an electric razor. This is no small feat, for the five o'clock has evolved from the manageable PM version to the dangerously powerful AM monstrosity. The bastard is close to becoming self-aware and achieving the end goal: rule my face.

Electric razoring lasts roughly ten minutes and is never truly successful. Already the face flesh is reeling from the vicious punishment of the painful Panisonic. While attempting to vanquish beard beast, the skin will occasionally break open. This weakness is not known by my relentless facial hair. A splash of cold water from the faucet notifies my face that phase one is complete.

But the beard battle has just begun.

Touch ups are done in the shower with a Gillette Fushion ProGlide Power. The name says it all. Five blades of fury designed to take no hair hostage. Fresh blades will glide effortlessly across the face and remove any trace of the Euro grunge look; however, forget to replace the razor's head often enough and you'll pay dearly.

Post-op, my face burns with the intense fieriness of a thousand suns. The torrid temperature causes searing pain and agony lasting hours. The follicle genocide and subsequent emotional scarring is a ritual played out in my bathroom daily. This is the price I pay...because I'm successful...and far more manly than you can imagine.

It puts the lotion on it's skin or else it burns like a mother fucker again.

xoxo,
ShavedGolf