The reflection in the bathroom cabinet mirror wasn’t too great.

I was still sipping my first coffee of the morning and waiting for the caffeine to lift the skin under my eyes to somewhat normal proportions. Who the hell needs skin elasticity with a cafetiere, two and a half sugars and a drop of milk?

I glanced down to the basin at my beloved five blade razor lying in its warm morning bath awaiting the task of removing the stubble and blue river fresh gel from my face. I coughed in shock and coffee spewed forth across the mirror. The whole surface of the water was afloat with pubic hairs! My beloved blue and silver five bladed morning star, my signature of manhood, second only to he who was still sleeping, had been desecrated.

As I stared bug eyed, panic seeped through my body as I realised it was my last blade until I hit the supermarket, my six year old daughter wandered into the bathroom. Looking at the mirror dripping coffee, she tutted and with a raised eyebrow far beyond her years looked into the basin.

“Mummy’s in trouble again”, and with that giggled and ran out of the room.

Now I’m a reasonable man by most standards but, when it comes to my shaving equipment, finely honed by craftsmen slaving away for my personal satisfaction (or by some Japanese robotic device, if you really want to burst my bubble completely), a line has to be drawn somewhere. I have tried every sane rational course of action to stop my wife from using my razor but, the pubic hairs now into their very own synchronised swimming exercise before me are testament to my miserable failure. I know it’s my imagination but, as soon as she has used my razor it takes on the attributes of being blunt, sullied and well…. just plain dirty.

The first time I ever found my twin bladed friend blocked with foreign hair, in the mornings of an age past when I was sufficiently compos mentis at that time of the day to check it before dropping it into the basin, I had hit the roof. Running downstairs, I had yelled at her so passionately that she had dropped her jam covered toast onto the kitchen floor. Naturally it landed the right way up. The only answer I received as to why she had seen fit to use my razor was that her cheap one bladed disposables were useless and that they cut her legs, this accompanied by the revealing of a nasty healing cut just above her left ankle. So, bursting with machismo largesse and seeing a way to a little fun foreplay I sealed my fate forever. “Why don’t you let me shave your legs tonight and show you how to do it properly?” Her smile said it all.

Call me a chauvinist if you must but, to my mind there is no way on earth that a woman can shave as well as a man. After all, it is something handed down from generation to generation between fathers and sons, part of the inimitable bonding process that daft psychologists love to bang on about, but nevertheless true.

I did it, she loved it, the result? We did it. Unfortunately for me she discovered my razor and gel was far superior to hers. All was not well. Twice in the next week I found my shaving wonder stuffed full of hairs of varying lengths and description, twice I ranted and raved, twice her toast fell on the floor the right way up (odd that?). It made no difference. Her blanket response was that my razor was better than hers, and no, she didn’t know anything about banging it on the side of the basin or swirling it in clean water to clean the blades out when she had finished. This from an articulate intelligent woman? My solution or what seemed at the time a stroke of genius, was to go out and buy a triple bladed razor and five spare blades for her own personal use. She was delighted.

Three weeks later my nightmare returned. My razor was stuffed full of hair, my last spare blade was gone and there was no gel left in the can. Cautiously I opened the bathroom cabinet and there sitting on the top shelf taunting me was her razor, blades full of matted hair and five equally deformed spare blades. The sound that escaped me was akin to a strangled cat. She heard it and poked her head round the door from the bedroom where she was getting dressed. “What’s the matter?” and then “Oh” as her eyes alighted on the razor in my hand. She saw me raise my arm and with a scream ducked just in time as the razor flew past her head. The last thing I saw was her knickers clad behind disappear down the stairs accompanied by the cry of “You’re a lunatic” amid loud chuckling.

My resolve did not buckle. That day I went straight out and bought the latest high tech ladies electric razor. It was brilliant. Shaped for perfect hand fit, light foil bladed, pop up long hair trimmer, rechargeable, submersible and it could even be used with shaving gel. That evening I patiently went through with her exactly how it could be used and how to fit the spare foil once the old one started to deteriorate, although that would take many many months. She was delighted with it, even more so when she realised that she could use it whilst having a bath or shower. The only thing I hammered home to her was that she had to put it back on charge after using it each time otherwise she would go to use it, find it dead, then be tempted back to my razor. She promised faithfully.

It was amazing. I don’t know is those foils were made of titanium, but for the next eighteen months or so my razor remained mine alone unblighted by foreign materials. During that period, one with a pivoting head, four blades and an aloe lubrastrip replaced my beloved three blader. Even this was eventually dumped for a revolutionary five blade model. Okay sure, the adverts work, and I’m as much a sucker for them as the vast percentage of the male population out there. Unfortunately as one gets older shaving becomes something of a chore and talking to my friends this is not an isolated feeling. It’s the old brick and a hard place scenario. I hate the feeling of more than a day’s stubble but am fed up with shaving every morning. If I skip a day my wife won’t kiss me for more than ten seconds as my beard makes her face sore and my daughters complain that it is prickly if I cuddle or kiss them.

Having been lulled into what can only be described as a false sense of security, the day arrived, as I should have known it would, when I happily picked up my razor only to find it had again been desecrated with female hair. I dashed into the bedroom and sure enough sitting on its charging unit on the windowsill was her electric razor. So, why had she used mine at all this time? I turned back to the bathroom puzzled and gave a last glance at the windowsill, and then it hit me. She was charging as promised but there was no foil on it! Confronting her that night, after the kids had gone to bed just in case it resulted in violence on my part, I asked why.

“The second foil was starting to pull and it hurt so I threw it away which meant I had nothing to shave with last night” was all she said in a matter of fact tone. Then, smiling ever so sweetly, “You know how you hate to make love when my legs feel like sandpaper”. I was incredulous. How does she do that? How can she turn something she’s done to my razor into an inadequacy that I apparently have? Ignoring her, I told her where to get new foils and pleaded, yes pleaded with her to leave my razor alone and to sort her own out.

The next week continued in purgatory. She went to get a new foil and couldn’t decide which was the right one. I gave her the shaver model number but, they were out of stock. Whilst she was there did she buy any razors in the meantime? No. By the end of the week I couldn’t even bear the thought of looking at my razor in the morning. Come the weekend I went out and bought her some nice plastic pale blue triple bladed disposables with a lubrastrip specially designed for female usage, named after a planet funnily enough. I bought twenty five of them!

Two months later my razor was in an horrific state again, her excuse this time. “You forgot to buy me some more last time you went shopping.” Did she tell me she was on her last one? No. Am I psychic? No. Did she bother to add them to her usual shopping list? No. I managed to grab her on the way out of the front door as I left for work and asked why. “Well, it’s a man thing shaving isn’t it, how do you expect me to remember?” and blowing a kiss she closed the front door.

So, this morning when my basin is full of pubic hair, I know she had finished another pack of twenty five razors and has completely forgotten about the electric shaver. My new blade is blunt and unusable and another two months of my life have passed. Grabbing a flannel I begin to wipe the coffee off the cabinet mirror, my thoughts once more turning to ways of getting around the problem.

Ruination of a razor blade doesn’t really come under the terms of unreasonable behaviour and therefore would not hold up very well as grounds for a divorce. The thought of a home electrolysis machine appeals, sticking that needle into her hair follicles would be highly satisfying and I wonder if the voltage can be turned up. ( I know she doesn’t like pain that’s why she won’t get it all waxed instead of shaving.) Wiring my razor directly to the bathroom shaver socket has possibilities but I worry about my daughters getting hold of it or me forgetting and picking it up one dozy morning. Even padlocking the bathroom cabinet wouldn’t help as I am renowned for losing keys.

Gingerly I put my hand in the basin of water and pull the plug, grimacing as various hairs attach themselves to me. Rinsing them off, I look at myself in the mirror knowing there is little I can do in this battle to preserve what should be a bastion of male sanctity. I have a wife who cannot see it from my point of view and three daughters learning from their mothers example who will soon grow and get to the point where they will begin shaving legs, underarms and other places.

I begin my descent to breakfast, knowing my youngest would have warned her mother and all four would be sitting there smiling sweetly by the cereal and waiting expectantly for my outburst. Normally they fear my outbursts; rare as they are, and cower under my angry glares but on this subject alone they are highly amused. I can now fully appreciate Professor Higgins exasperated cry in the film My Fair Lady “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?”

Maybe I will take up painting with their lipsticks and nail varnishes.