Earlier this week I shavved awff the last remnants of my beard. Students had been pestering me for a while about it, and, for me, once the full beard goes, it's just a matter of time before the rest goes with it. The thing is, though, I have been pinching pennies lately, mainly to budget for upcoming plans and, oh, I don't know, a possible global recession, so I had no razors at home. But by mid-week this week I was pretty scruffy, so I just went for broke and bought a pack of Schick double-blades. At 7-11. (Don't ask. When in Taiwan….)
Well, when I got home that evening, I eagerly cracked open the four-pack of blades and went to work. Nearly half an hour later, though, I was still scraping back and forth over the most intransigent patches of man fur, the blade jouncing like a dog's leg scratching fleas (but, alas, without the deep release of a good flea-scratching). Anyway, I finished the job and, in my own defiantly eventual way, went to bed.
The next morning I enjoyed the forgotten caresses of air on my chin and cheeks that had been rebuffed all those months by my beard. In my first class, I scared them with a little April Fool's fun, and then, me oh me, pandered to their grunting and pointing at my face. "So young!" they chirped.
I began by teaching them "shave" and "razor". Then I taught them "beard", as in, "Teacher, you shaved your beard." Then I reminded them of the intermediate "gotif" I had worn for a few weeks. And that's when I just about died.
I ran my finger under the word and enunciated "my goh-tee", but it was too late. They had already caught the spirit, and, as if with one voice, yelled, "You shaved your gol' teef!"
I has been shave mah gold teef!