The Thousands

Personally, I choose not to shave. It’s tedious, painful and makes me look like some kind of prepubescent bootlicker. Instead, I opt for a perpetual shadow of closely cropped growth. However, my sense of curiosity often outweighs my sense of better judgement, which is how I found myself being shaved by a girl.

Traditionally, the barbershop has been the domain of men. So, when I fronted up for my first cut throat experience I expected to be greeted by a man, probably wearing a white coat, hopefully named Frank. We would bond over our common masculinity and I would endow him with the trust required to take a scolding hot razor to my face and throat.

Instead, I was greeted by Vicky. She sat me down and we discussed my skin care and shaving routine. Due to the coarseness of my stubble and softness of my skin, she couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t cut me, awesome. After a series of relaxing hot towels and facial treatments, she began the shave and a few minutes later I emerged looking like my 14-year-old self, at which point she told me that I looked better with my beard. Thanks Vicky.