I must have grabbed an old razor before I left on my last trip, because I had only used it a few times before it was cutting my face up like a prison snitch. I rarely enjoy shaving and typically sport a few days of stubble, not because I think I pull it off in a roguish, dashing manner, but rather because it takes some fairly significant event like a meeting or a date to make me feel like it is worth the trouble to shave (meetings are a lot more common than the dates by a factor that is too depressing to post here).
From time to time I wonder about going old school with a straight razor, a shaving cream brush, and a strap of leather hanging near my sink for sharpening. I wonder if I wouldn't appreciate the process and routine more that way. But there is also something to be said for the stubble.
But I enjoy the stubble. There is something comforting about rubbing my fingers against it when I am deep in thought or trying to create the illusion that I am deep in thought. And there is something comforting about the idea that if an ice age starts tomorrow then I will be a few days ahead of schedule in growing a warming facial covering.
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