To Shave or Not to Shave
It’s really an all or nothing proposition, whether to shave your legs. Or at least it ought to be. Ought to. Nevertheless, circumstances require otherwise, from time to time. I have been debating it for a stretch now. Shorn shanks are common amongst cyclists. I’m not sure I consider myself a proper one, but there are advantages. The most prevalent, perhaps, is reduced wind resistance. I don’t know, maybe it does make a difference...if you’re racing against Lance. I’m not. The most appealing reason for me to consider was reduced chafing, especially around the thighs where the silicon on the shorts grip (where the rubber meets the road, if you will). Another: sun protection. Ok, let me elaborate. The sun is quite intense in New Zealand. Really, it’s not a joking matter. There’s a massive hole in the ozone layer down here, and if you don’t Slip Slap Slop (or some shit, that’s an actual campaign slogan used by the Ministry of Something-or-Other). At any rate, if you don’t heed the advice, you will get torched. Torched. I forgot about it (or underestimated it) when I first arrived, and sho’nuff I got more than I bargained for. It doesn’t take long – seriously, 10 minutes and you’re baked. (Even if you don’t re-apply properly – or if you’re wiping your forehead with your wrists as you cruise the countryside on your bike – I developed small sun blisters on my lower arms a week later.) But back to the issue: applying lotion to hairy legs only seems to get the hair greasy and not much else. And it’s not all that comfortable, anyway. So there are at least three compelling reasons for a cyclist to shear his twigs. The fourth, and perhaps most compelling: it’s dead sexy. But I digress. Today, after I did a quarter century (or more - and a couple hundred miles prior) in the wind and rough road (quintessential Wellington) – and considering what I’ll be grinding out on the pavement in the coming week or two – I decided to go for it.
Well as it turns out, easier said than done. Of course, I don’t have any electric clippers with me. Just my friend Gillette, with and old cartridge at that. Long story short(er), I engaged in a full on marine (shower) battle…and lost. My compromise (for today) is clean thighs and a mostly smooth couple of kneecaps. Not even that; really just a clean strip where the silicon hits. Like I said: dead sexy.
Oh well, I need a haircut anyway. (When I get one, I’ll ask the barber how much extra it will cost to finish shaving my legs. Can’t wait for the reaction. Some of you know that I’m not really kidding.) There’s something about getting a haircut abroad. And really, a clean cut on the noggin and freshly clipped nails does something more for a person’s psyche than meets the eye, and freshly trimmed poles to boot just rounds out the trifecta. So I’m looking forward to that.
[Started this post a few days ago; since then, I've chipped away and managed a respectable - and more uniform - sheen. Even got a few compliments at the wineries yesterday. I've also gotten a haircut, and saved the gal the embarrassment of having to answer my query...or did I save myself the embarrassment?].
No comments:
Post a Comment