Kinis

It got to where I was going through three a day disposable, triple-blade, blue with deeper blue easy-grip rubber inlay handles and slimy aloe soothing strips, though, still, my skin prickled, itched, bloomed in little patches of bumps.

To shave so much is counterproductive, but addictive-I'd spend half my waking hours enclosed in shower steam and smelled, all summer, musky sweet.

First, I dont know how and what to shave, even now. It's a Rubicon cross, to shave or not to shave, what's done is done. Whether it's like Derek Ramsey's jawline shave or George Clooney's ageless rim, nothing still suits me. It all goes to a clean cut.

Teresa, my high school crush. She is often amused of my puberty hairs. Small budding hairs on a mustache, and fibers forced to grow on my chin. Everytime she sees me, she give me a greet, sometimes a rag. The un dulce dia, was when the time she touched my face. "If only you were older..." I felt no sorrow for falling in love with a damsel who poses for media for a living. Heartbreaks are part of it, I'll find someone better even hotter.

Since then I started shaving more often than ever. Knowing the lore that if you shave more often, hair will grow hastier. But now at my age, the hair was monstrous. Coarser and stiffier. Even at the parts when its tricky. The scrotum, obviously, but also those few coarse hairs toward the veiny base of the shaft and, harder still, the flat hairs along the fold between the groin and the top joints of the thighs.

Shaving hair was a temporary perfection. Sudden gush of confidence. Looking manly or not, I still have to get handsome, as of my looks differ from my age. But I don't cut all my hairs, legs and armpits are untouched.

My university years, for instance, I totally crushed on Luna, this cute local palm reader, sometimes a witch, who did occasional black onyx scryings at the occult place but mainly just looked bored and nothing like my crush, picking at her thick tendrils of dreads or the metal rings through her lower lip. She dressed in black slip dresses and boots with southern Tagalog accents, but it was all her hair that hooked me, those mounds of coiled dreads and the bushes in her armpits.

The witches and psychics and their friend the rice-in-a-box delivery guy would all come to our place, drinking brandy, and I spent weeks working up the nerve to eventually look up to her toward something like flirting with her, which in the end just involved me telling her I love painting bliss pictures on a rainy day. She gave me a bean-sized green crystal, for inspiration and mind powers, and a sympathetic kiss in my hairline. I could smell almond between her breasts.

The witch and the rice guy were making out. The frustrated rockstar with it's bone hugging pants, a pair of gray Chucks, and a face of a unmowed grass, he is oozing with "Uhuh, that's cool" and punches of "That's jazzy" makes the witch tickle. A beat down on my face as I looked like a lad going to a ball party. If only I haven't shaved, I would be laid with a woman with hairy armpits and dated Davey Jones.

A trip to the shower glass, staring at your frame, wondering what to do next. A shave might alter your facial features but not what you have in mind. Once the blades touches flesh, process of perfection begins, improving and lasting.