I took a good hard look at myself, when I was shaving. I hate shaving, some people claim to find it a centering ritual or some bullshit like that, the liars, but I really derive no pleasure from shaving, not even the pleasure of having finished with shaving, since there is always lingering pain, so even the relief of having completed an odious task is denied me, due to nicks, smarts, bloody dots and all the rest of it, the stinging legacy of facial violence. I've tried everything, it's not from not trying things. I haven't tried everything, but I've tried some things. Three things tops. There are unguents, there are preparatory skin routines. Multiple blade attacks. They help, but not enough. A winning attitude is crucial. Your face can smell your fear. People don't think you can smell your own fear but this is a popular misconception. You must cajole the face, or outsmart it. I am cleverer than my face, I tell myself. No mere face will lord it over me, I tell myself, except for the faces of certain celebrities. These affirmations are necessary, according to this brochure from Nivea. It takes confidence to know you will defeat your face in the end, a deep inner conviction that you'll break your face and thereby win its grudging respect. My stubborn face doesn't want to be shaved, but it must, since my facial hair is hapless, with poor coverage and unsightly distribution issues, dead zones and unappealing asymmetries somehow suggestive of mental derangement. I don't like beards but I can't grow a proper one anyway so it's moot, but I can't shave without unusual discomfort. Shaving isn't what I wanted to talk about.