The Hazards of Shaving—A Study in Vanity

This evening there would be a larger and more discerning crowd than last, and it was imperative that he look his absolute best. He was exquisitely dressed and immaculately coiffed. All that remained was that he shave before he left. Entering the bathroom, he was careful not to soil his white, silk gloves and with one sharp, deft stab he switched the lights on. At the sink he stopped, reached for a straight razor, and began shaving, at once, so as not to waste any more time.

He shaved in long, bold strokes with the utmost confidence, as though there were no possible room for error. He did not waver once to reconsider where to resume. Nor did the blade falter or claim a wound of any kind. It was as if it glided smoothly out of an infinite respect for the sheer perfection that was his face, and from an unpardonable fear of blemishing it. Only when he was completely done shaving did he pause to examine himself. To do so adequately, and fully appreciate his work, he switched on an additional light situated next to the mirror, and leaned over shamelessly close, so that his face loomed directly before it.

Cupping his chin in one gloved hand, as one might handle a delicate vase, he proceeded to caress his cheeks lovingly with the other. He smiled to himself, quite pleased with the results. Then, he circled the outside of his face with both hands, coming in at the cheekbones and out at the jaw. He frowned. He was not particularly pleased with the shape of his jaw, today. He shut his eyes, dreamily massaging eyelids and eyebrows with both forefingers in a slow, circular motion.

Bringing the thumb and forefinger of his left hand together, he ran his fingers down his nose, over his nose bridge, pressing tightly at the base on either end of his nostrils. He scowled, once more; this time it was still more pronounced. His nose was, decidedly, bulbous this evening. In fact, he had harbored this suspicion for over a week now, but had not been certain. There was also the weak chin to worry about. Something would have to be done, for tonight's crowd would be merciless.

He leaned even further into the mirror, so that his face appeared to merge with it. Impatiently, he reached for the razor again, and began shaving with more vigor than before, remarkably closer. He brought the blade beneath his chin, shaving upward, adopting some caution, now, so as not to hurt himself. He buried the blade deep and with unnerving detachment, began to shave the outside of his face. Working his way inward, the face came off in a meticulous coil that hung provocatively over the sink, not quite touching it. In one decisive stroke, he shaved off the last of his face and let it fall into the sink. He looked away as the running water cleared the skin, while the drainpipe consumed it, greedily. Before fleeing the house, disproportionately worried at how late it was, he instinctively checked himself in the hallway mirror.

As he made his way into the ballroom he came to adopt a much more leisurely gait. At the entrance, he cocked his head to one side and walked in, as if oblivious to the overwhelming commotion he was creating. He walked directly to his table and sat down. Upon his request, he had been seated alone. As soon as he took his place, distinguished men and women from surrounding tables flocked around him to witness this phenomenon, gazing in awe and incredulous admiration. One society lady was bold enough to actually touch his face. He did not pull back, but looked on with proud indignation as she fumbled through some intricate apology, praising his face, unreservedly, in the process. The evening proved to be yet another staggering success for him.

When the world was first introduced to the miracle of his face, years ago, they were repulsed. Gradually this repulsion, spurred by fascination, metamorphosed into awe and, eventually, gave way to admiration. His face had been his claim to fame, his ticket into high society, no more no less. Now, his face gave him status, and the respect of the most distinguished members in society. Therefore, it came to be that his whole world revolved around his face, and the next face, so he, assiduously, took the finest care of each new face. The people had, albeit reluctantly, come to accept the fact that he was a man who, somehow or other, managed to transform his face from day to day. They had also come to expect the fact that, invariably, each new face was to be more physically attractive and artistically evocative than the last. Once they accepted and expected this, they did so with the utmost anticipation.

Moreover, each new face seemed to suggest a particular character which people found themselves, helplessly, responding to. At present, his face evinced an unmistakably leonine aspect. He felt invincible, at a personal peak, without peer—he could do no wrong. And, so, the-man-of-many-faces continued appearing at select events before an elect audience, parading himself. He grew exceedingly pompous, sometimes refusing to change a face for months on end. The people complained, but despite themselves, still gathered in large numbers to catch a glimpse of him on his way to some rare outing at a reception or benefit dinner. They noted, too, that over time he paid noticeably less attention to his dress, and would often fail to show up altogether some evenings. Finally, the elite in society grew impatient with his antics, and issued an ultimatum. If he did not appear regularly, as before, dressed appropriately, as before, they wanted nothing at all to do with him.

As he was dressing, the following night, he found himself paying especially careful attention to each garment. He also took additional time combing his hair, and setting it. Then, he decided to shave off his face, for he had outworn it during these last appearances. He no longer needed to shave before a mirror, having become adept at the art of shaving. Nevertheless, he thought he should consult the looking glass, afterwards, to see just how well he had done.

Surprisingly, he found it exceptionally painful to shave this time around; his face felt unusually exposed and stung, relentlessly. Before the mirror he staggered, mouthing a soundless cry. What stared back at him was a face like none of the others he'd masqueraded. It was not remotely attractive, or arresting. This face was quietly devastating. Without features or color, it did not evoke any character or produce any emotion. He no longer had any other faces to hide behind. Frantically, he attempted to get beneath it, in vain. Instead he cut himself shaving.

—@yahialababidi

(Images: First, mine, Second)