I Just Want a Morning Without Shaving

The morning washroom is a small battlefield for me.

I glare at my sleepy face reflected in the mirror and splash cold water on it. I run the pads of my fingers against the grain from my chin to under my nose. A rough, hard sensation greets me. This happens in just one night. If I leave them alone, these things grow as they please. After confirming that unpleasant sensation, I pick up my razor.

Swish, swish. The sharp, five-bladed weapon glides over my face on the other side of the mirror.

Originally, the act of shaving is supposed to be something more sacred and ritualistic. When I looked up the 'correct shaving procedure' recommended by a certain manufacturer, it generally consists of the following steps.

First, wash your face to remove sebum and dirt, and soften your beard with lukewarm water or a steamed towel. Next, check the direction of your beard growth and apply plenty of shaving cream. Then, without applying pressure, gently shave with the grain first. Carefully shave against the grain only in areas you missed, and finally, rinse off, wipe with a clean towel, and moisturize with lotion or milky lotion...

As if I could do that. I use cold water where they say to use lukewarm water. I'm already failing from the first line. Is my face really that much of a VIP? While I'm fighting for just a few minutes in the morning, the manufacturer is trying to open a barbershop for me. Or maybe a beauty salon.

So, my actual process is extremely barbaric. It consists of two steps: 'wet face' and 'shave'.

I only apply milky lotion as a consolation when it stings. This lotion is no longer skincare, but more like an 'accident response team' that rushes in after the skin has already turned red. And it usually arrives at the scene late.

However, for some reason, I have faithfully followed the advice I saw on TV years ago: 'Don't move it in short strokes as it damages the skin; shave with long strokes.' Even though I skip washing my face, steamed towels, and shaving cream, I faithfully execute only the long strokes. This is like a student taking an exam using only the trivia in the margins without reading the textbook.

Still, why are replacement razor blades so expensive?

I've tried cheating on my usual brand with cheap razors found in the corner of a drugstore to save money. This turned out to be exactly what you'd expect for the price. It snagged, it didn't shave, and I ended up having to go over the same spot two or three times. It was frustrating and even irritated my skin.

In the end, I return to the reliable, higher-priced models like Gillette, Schick, or Kai. I feel that Gillette, in particular, is a cut above the rest, so it has become the main weapon in my household.

The day I break out a brand-new replacement blade, it feels absolutely amazing. It shaves smoothly as if gliding over ice, and the lubricant-like substance protects my skin.

Ah, so this is what a new blade is like, I think, feeling impressed.

However, from the moment I use it once, the countdown of 'how many more times can I use this' begins. My wallet doesn't have the financial power to replace blades whenever I feel like it. Even though I know the comfort of a new blade, I end up stingily continuing to use the same blade, telling myself, 'I can use it today, I can still use it tomorrow'.

The manufacturers say that 'two weeks is the guideline' for replacing blades. Meanwhile, I'm asking the same single blade to work until its post-retirement re-employment.

Some time ago, I bought a silicone rubber razor blade cleaner. They say if you move the blade back and forth on it, the dirt comes off and the blade lasts longer. I was hoping for some kind of alchemy that would restore the sharpness to like-new condition.

It did last a little longer, for sure. But it didn't return to being new. The angle of the downward slope of declining sharpness just became slightly more gradual.

Eventually, I stopped using that cleaner too, and now I clean between the blades with an old toothbrush. Every morning, I hold an internal meeting in my brain: 'It can still go' versus 'No, let it retire already.' Well, the final personnel decision is usually held by my wallet.

'Well then, why don't you just use an electric shaver?'

You might think so.

Actually, I once bought one of those futuristic, cool-looking ones with three rotating discs in the head. The excitement when I opened the box, the streamlined body, the geometric patterns traced by the three blades. As a gadget lover, the form was irresistible.

With this, I could shave my beard smartly with a whir every morning. My mornings were supposed to change dramatically.

The moment I triumphantly turned it on and pressed it against my cheek, it happened.

"Bzzzzzzzt!"

Every hair on my body stood on end.

That unpleasant vibration, like when you accidentally bite down on aluminum foil or a metal spoon, traveled through my jawbone and raced deep into my head.

My internal power plant had expanded its business scope from just metal spoons to electric shavers as well.

I thought electric would free me from the hassle, but it was a no-go. It was an expensive purchase, and a huge failure at that.

Ever since then, I've been too scared to use an electric shaver. Maybe one from another brand would be fine. But the thought of that 'bzzzzzt' coming back again makes me too terrified to reach for one.

If so, how about a classic single-blade razor instead?

When I look online, my heart sometimes stirs for those cool, classic single-blade ones. The luster of heavy metal, the dedicated stand, the faint scent of a craftsman. Just looking at the product photos makes me want one intensely, as it feels like a 'tool for a grown man.' Plus, the replacement blades are cheap.

In my head, a version of myself like James Bond appears, quietly shaving in a dimly lit hotel bathroom. It is the height of dandyism.

But in reality, there is no way a clumsy person like me could handle such a thing. I can clearly see a future where I slice my jaw clean open on the first pass, cut under my nose on the second, and by the third pass, I am covered in blood and my wife, Torako-san, comes running with a first-aid kit.

"Is that a tool for shaving your beard?"

Torako-san would probably ask.

"Yes, it is."

"Are you trying to peel your face off too?"

I would definitely be told that. My delusion of dandyism ended miserably right there.

Well, I have talked at length about my epic battle with my beard, but there is one thing I must confess here.

To begin with, I don't have thick facial hair.
Actually, it's thin. Or rather, it's patchy.

There was a time I longed for a wild beard, but what won't grow, won't grow. Even if I let it grow out, I wouldn't become a "man with a beard," just a "man who forgot to shave."

The troops on my cheeks and chin never manage to join forces. My mustache also cuts off abruptly in the middle. My beard never had the territory or the population to build a nation.

And yet, I use the world's finest five-blade razor, desperately trying to extend the life of the blades with silicone, all while yearning for the dandyism of a single-blade razor.

Every morning, I face an almost non-existent enemy with state-of-the-art, high-end weaponry; the sense of futility in this is something else, isn't it? It's like shooting a mosquito with a cannon.

I might as well just get laser hair removal.
That's not for the sake of beauty, nor for cleanliness.
It's not that I want a face without a beard. I want a morning without shaving.

I want to completely abolish this five-minute, futile task that repeats every morning in the bathroom from the project called my life. That is all.

Thinking that, I looked up the cost of hair removal online, but the price was on a completely different level than the cost of Gillette replacement blades, so I quietly closed the browser.

Tomorrow, I will splash water on my face and pick up that five-blade weapon whose retirement has been indefinitely postponed. And, faithfully following only the teachings of that TV commercial, I will pull it long and slow. Against an enemy that is barely even there.

The forces of my beard are overwhelmingly weak.
But sadly, my decisiveness and my purse strings are just as weak.

　
　　
Aioi Essay

▽ Click here for the story about the "Bzzzzzt" brain power plant.

▽ Here are the essay works I submitted to the note Creative Awards 2026. Please take a look.

Thank you for reading until the end 😌

If this article resonated with you even a little, it would be a great encouragement if you could support me with a 'like' or a follow!

I also write essays that capture casual, everyday moments which I have also submitted to the Creative Awards. Please feel free to take a peek.

Threads, Substack, I post behind-the-scenes stories about how this essay was made and images that couldn't fit into the note post.