In Which I Fail to Emulate Caesar

This morning, I woke up at 7:30.  It wasn’t a yawn, stretch, admire my flowing golden locks in the mirror kind of morning, either.  It was a groan, open one eye, consider burrowing back into bed kind of morning.  Eventually, I found the courage to put my feet on the floor (mostly, mind you, because I look forward to my morning oatmeal like a seven-year-old looks forward to Christmas).  Snatching the blanket from the foot of my bed, I fashioned a toga of sorts over my sweats, wrapping it across one shoulder and under one armpit.  Without any Caesarian dignity, I descended the stairs and ambled into the kitchen.

Jordan was there, drinking coffee in his calm way.  He’s a morning person.  Apparently, the toga and under-eye circles spoke for me, because he quickly poured me a cup.  Then he asked, with the kind of earnestness I cannot summon until at least noon, if I would shave his neck.

“Natalie cut my hair last night, but she didn’t have a razor, so my neck is a little scrappy.”

In the bathroom, he smeared his neck with shaving cream, and I proceeded to scrape at it with a dull razor, pulling over and over against the fine hairs that refused to budge.  Eventually, it was clear that the cause was lost.

So off to school I went, thinking of Hemingway shaving in the pine-littered hills of Spain, frowning at his reflection in the bottom of a tin pot and pausing every so often (never mind the lather dripping from his chin or the pop of grenades in the background) to write down a thought or two.

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