Whiskers on His Chin

He shaved on Monday, but never on a Tuesday.

If he didn’t shave on Monday, he’d have to wait until the following Monday to pick up the razor. He was a creature of habit. If the habit was disturbed, he punished himself by never rescheduling. Tuesday's tasks were never moved to Wednesday. That was how he trained himself. If he missed, he missed. His hair grew remarkably fast. That meant, if he waited a week, he’d have a beard by the time he could finally shave again.

That was why he never missed a Sunday.

On Monday, May 13th, Michael shaved a little too close and a little too quick. He nicked the underside of his chin, and a thin line of red appeared that needed a small strip of Kleenex applied to it. It was uncommon for Michael to cut himself while shaving, but not unheard of, and he didn’t have any reason to believe that it would affect his day.

It wasn’t until he arrived at work that he realized something was off. He sat down at his desk, and when he turned on his computer, he saw his reflection staring back at him in the monitor. It was not the reflection of a man sitting at his desk, but a man standing in front of a bathroom mirror holding a razor. He was scruffy. He needed the shave. The razor was aloft. It was ready for that first cut.

The question was--

Hadn’t he already done that? Just hours earlier, he had tended to his grooming. There was the cut, and then he was off to work. By the time he reached the parking garage where he had a prime spot on the second level, the slice had already stopped bleeding, and he gingerly peeled off the Kleenex and tossed it by the car of a coworker he didn’t like.

Michael remembered all this clearly. So why was he now standing back in his bathroom? He had been looking at his monitor a moment ago. Now, the reflection had immersed his surroundings. Could everything after the cut have been a dream? Well, if he was getting some kind of do-over, that was fine with him. He didn’t like that he had cut himself. He would do it again, do it right, and then go to work having been given a second chance--albeit a chance to right a small wrong, but nevertheless.

He shaved carefully. This time, there were no errors. His face was smooth, and, more importantly, unmarred. After dressing in a nicer suit than the one he had previously chosen, he got in his car, and began the drive to his office. While stopping at a red light at the intersection of Glad and Rather, he looked in his rear view mirror to see if there was anyone behind him. This was something he did for no reason at all, but lots of people do it, don’t they? Isn’t it important to be aware of your surroundings? Michael checked the mirror, but there was no car behind him. When he adjusted the mirror so he could take a look at himself, he didn’t see a man sitting in a car. He saw a man standing in a bathroom. The next second, he was a man standing in a bathroom.

Holding a razor.

The white cream only lightly applied to his face.

He should apply more when he shaves, but he never does.

That’s probably how he cut himself the first time.

You can’t have a smooth shave without enough cream.

But wait--

Why?

Why was he back here?

He had done it perfectly last time. There was no need to do it again. He didn’t begrudge the Universe forcing a do-over on him, but only if it was corrective. Only if it was going to be productive. He needed to get to work. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t late, because time had been rewound. What mattered was that he was entitled to go on with his day. He didn’t hate shaving, but he didn’t love it either. It was something he had to do, and so he did it. He resented having to do it more than twice in one day. This was a complete waste of time.

The sink was filled with warm water for him to rinse the razor in between strokes down his cheek. He was shirtless. Should he make note of that? Should he notice more about himself than he had the last two times? Why was any of this important? Nothing was novel to this day of shaving. He was only shirtless when he did it. He always had a white towel around his shoulders. Music was often playing in the background, because he enjoyed listening to music when he was at home. He had no television. He was one of those people. He preferred to read. He preferred to journal. He preferred not to have to shave over and over again.

And yet, he did, because what choice did he have? He couldn’t go to the office looking scraggly, and there would be no shaving on a Tuesday. He repeated the process, chose another suit, not as nice as the last one, but nicer than the first one, and he went to work.

On the way there, he stopped at his favorite coffee shop and ordered an Americano. Michael looked over in the shop window, and--No. There he was. Not a man waiting on his coffee order, but a man standing in front of a bathroom mirror wondering if he should shave the top of his chest where there was a tuft of hair that really irritated him, because of how small and irregular it appeared to be.

No.

Hang on.

Why was Michael suddenly worried about a tuft of hair? He hadn’t been worried about one during either of the previous shaves. He was only worried about cutting himself, and he wasn’t cutting himself any longer. That was far behind him. Now, he was thinking about chest hair? What kind of man thinks about chest hair? Michael didn’t have time to contemplate all this, because he was back in the bathroom, and the razor needed to be dipped in warm water.

This went on for what felt like eternity, but can’t be measured, as we don’t have an effective way of measuring an endless loop. Michael shaved himself, and shaved himself, and shaved himself, and as soon as he caught a glimpse of himself, he was back in the bathroom. Some might argue that had he refused to keep shaving, perhaps he could have broken the loop. The trouble was, Michael didn’t believe you got out of a problem by doing something different.

He believed you came up with a resolution by doing properly what you previously had done poorly. He thought of Plato and the notion of the Ideal. The shadows on the cave. He would enact the ideal Shave. It would be close, but not detrimental. No cuts. No going against the grain. No irregular lines. All he had to do was get it right once, and then put on the appropriate suit to match, and he would be able to carry on with his day.

That was where we left him. Standing in a bathroom, but also, sitting at his desk. In his car. Walking down the street and seeing himself in duplicates while passing a store that sells mirrors. In the men’s room of his office. In his phone when he goes to take a photo of himself using the front-facing camera. He wants proof that his shave is perfect. Evidence that he did everything right.

None of that seems to add up to much, sadly. He still winds up back in that bathroom.

This last time, he didn’t try as hard not to cut himself, and there was quite a bit of blood. It dropped into the sink where the razor dropped down to meet it. Michael touched the cut, and when he lowered his hand to look at it, a crack appeared in the bathroom mirror.

It was a small crack, but it had never been there until that moment. Until then, the mirror had been pristine.

Not one thing wrong with it.