Slash and burn

In the interest of lightening the tone, I was talking to someone about the misery of shaving (female readers, feel free to fill the comments section with childbirth-based objections) and thought I'd share this anecdote with you.

Knowing that I've always wanted to try the old-fashioned cut-throat blade wet shave experience, one of my friends organised a Luxury Shave Experience for my birthday, as part of a day trip to London.

Off we toddled to a boutique in fashionable Chelsea. My face was wrapped in hot towels, and I settled back into the bosom of a very glamorous young lady, fully expecting the experience of a lifetime. The towels came off and the facial massage started. I was so relaxed that I was almost asleep. Then the razor made its presence felt. Now, gentlemen, you'll all understand that the angle at which the blade meets the face is important. Would you have guessed: perpendicular? Nor me. But there it was: edge on to my skin, and the motion started - the motion of a psychotic windscreen wiper. Back and forth it went, harder and harder.

The pain was, naturally, immense. However, I thought 'perhaps I'm just a wimp. Maybe it's meant to be like that', and didn't utter a squeak. I noticed my companion, through the mirror, leave the room, but thought that she was going for a coffee.

Perhaps ten minutes later, perhaps an hour later, the pain had spread to most areas of my face. Seemingly at random, my torturer patted my face dry and announced that she'd finished. The promised 'aftercare, beauty tips' and various extras were not, clearly, going to materialise, but as a polite chap, I thanked her and left.

Outside, my benefactor was sitting under a tree in the sun. On approaching her, I noticed that she was crying (not unknown in my presence). I coughed to announce my presence and she turned, took one look at my face, and increased the flow of tears (again, not unknown in my experience). However, her tears were occasioned, it turns out, by the mask of blood I was wearing. She had fled the room when the old red stuff had started to flow, and it hadn't stopped for quite some time. Finding a car's side-mirror, I realised that my face was a patchwork of gaping wounds and clumps of beard (I'd not shaven for a week in advance of this spa heaven): the beautician, horrified by the damage she'd done but not caring to alert me, had bailed out halfway, throwing me onto the street without mentioning either the damage or the incomplete job!

And so we wandered the streets of London for the day, passers-by staring openly at my harvest-sun face, blood spattering my clothes, heat pulsing from my head. Later that evening, we attended the recording of a Radio 4 show, in company with a great many aged and respectable retired citizens… none of whom cared to sit next to us, whatever they thought we were.

I've had a major operation and several injuries. I'm deaf, right now. Nothing beats the enduring pain of that day. Still, we've all got some good anecdotes out of it, and I can see the funny side. Now. I've even been for another shave, and it was wonderful. Shame the place has recently gone bankrupt.