Crown

Stretching out a dozen odd shaves with the triple blade Turbo whatnot was pretty good going one thought, until Arthur upped the ante more than a little a couple of weeks ago. Arthur had tried the quadruple version in the past before reverting back to the triple again. There had been little to differentiate between the two according to Arth. and certainly not enough to justify the more expensive quad. – the triple was expensive enough. A meticulous, delicate groomer, Arthur sometimes did not shave for five or six days. Still, even then his bristles left a fashionable salt and pepper dusting beneath his cap, the delicate growth always coming as a surprise as if produced on the instant like rabbit from hat. Fine rosy cheeks all weathers, Arthur’s cap always crucial in the rather fetching effect. Almost invariably the cap was screwed down securely, faded blue cricket branding that must have come down through the family somehow. (Arthur would never have worn secondhand apparel and neither was he ever a cricketer.) Sometimes evenings receiving his bread and fruits at the side gate Arthur might emerge bareheaded, shiny, pockmarked dome nakedly uncovered. But the razor. One guessed 6 - 8 weeks deployed; even 10 Arthur might stretch it; a dozen weeks perhaps with more sporadic use. In fact a single triple blade Turbo razor Arthur could retain a year or more, he estimated. Champion saver. Improviser. Scrounger and repairer. There seemed to be no sharpening or special maintenance for the triple blade. Warm water no doubt, good lather and patient, careful strokes. (Thinking further about the matter, it was somewhat surprising that Arthur did not favour the old cutthroat that could be sharpened on a strap.) When Arthur was at his toilette he could not be disturbed; however urgent the matter one needed to wait on those occasions. Five years ago at Peter Mac when Arth. had been waiting on the hospital trolley outside theatre with his face marked for the removal of his melanomas he had taken fright at the last moment at the prospect of the disfiguration that would result. Up and outta there without further ado in his skimpy gown, down to the station and the train back home to Spotty. It must have been a march over to Flinders Street as the unfamiliar underground would have been too confusing. Smooth, clean, a little handsome too – the visage was preserved. Arthur had no regrets. A range of natural remedies discovered mainly online seemed to have retrieved the situation, only the growth on the right ear lobe proving unresponsive. Yesterday going out to pick up the 2005 Proton Jumbuck he had bought in Rockbank 23kilometers out of town Arthur had flashed his license that was needed for the paperwork. Briefest glimpse had been enough – a striking picture of a thick wavy crown topped a face that was almost completely unrecognizable on the card. Golly! A knockout. That was really something, impressively audacious. Arthur had guessed that the flash had been received, the revelation seized. Have a look at me license, quoth he with one of his giggles, relaxed and easy now with his neighbor of so many years. He was not going to look like an old man in the photographic record, Arthur explained. Of course it was legal and in order, a hairpiece not a problem for the ID. A cap would have been a different matter.