the razor and the quiet man

Every morning around 6:30, before the sun gets brave enough to show its face through the blinds, I give myself time to shave like the world’s not ending.

Not in a rush. Not to impress. Just to remind myself I’m still here. Still worth the trouble.

I run the water until it’s just shy of too hot. There’s no soundtrack but the creak of the floor and the hiss of steam. I lather slow. I tilt the mirror like I’m preparing to meet an old friend who knows better than to ask too many questions.

The razor’s not fancy. The blades aren’t new. But I treat them like holy objects, because they’re the first to touch my face each day. Before the world gets to it.

Each stroke is a meditation. Strip the stubble. Quiet the mind. Face the reflection.

There’s a kind of respect in a slow shave. A ceremony of restraint. I’m not hacking through anything. I’m tending to something. I’m not trying to erase the man—I’m just making him visible again.

People talk a lot about self-care these days like it’s bubble baths and hashtags. But sometimes it’s just standing in front of the mirror with sleep still in your eyes, dragging steel across your jaw while thinking about the bills, the ache in your back, and that one thing you’re excited about.

And then doing it again tomorrow.

Because you’re still in the fight.

The morning asked, and you answered.

You don’t have to be fine. You just have to show up clean.

—C.H.