Gah. I hate shaving. Electric razors don't do the job for me, and blades play havoc with the moles on my throat. So when I'm not in beard-mode my mornings are punctuated with gore – blood on my throat from the razor, blood in the sink from my gums when I clean my teeth. Great way to start the day. Really gives you a positive attitude.
This morning's shave – hurried, running late so no time to use shaving cream, just blade and dry skin – was trickier than normal as I have a spot on my jawline and I really didn't want to slice the top off. If you'd told me when I was a pimple-faced 15-year-old that I'd still be staring in the mirror at zits when I was 35 I honestly think I'd have topped myself. Not that they're a common occurrence any more – I can't remember the last one, in fact. But hey – aren't they supposed to disappear for good before you leave school?
It's funny, but back then there was nothing – and I mean nothing – more important in the world than zits. The Cold War, the rainforests, exams, football, the pop charts, who shot JR, they all paled into insignificance compared with the morning rush to the bathroom to see what horrors had erupted overnight.
Now it's just 'so-whattish', something to smile nostalgically about. But I'll tell you what – I may whinge about my age a lot but I ain't half glad I'm not a teenager anymore.
Even if I do have to cut my throat each morning.