I think every teenaged girl goes through the baby oil
phase. At least they did when I was a teen.
It lasts until the early to middle twenties or whenever the girl discovers other more easily managable, or even better smelling, skin softening products. They use it for sun tanning, getting rid of callouses on the heel or elbow and occassionaly for other things.
I remember one girl in my group of friends said she used it on her face and the rest of the crew were just horrified by this. Something about causing the skin to break out or something. So I never used it on my face, but used it just about everywhere else.
In the middle 80's I was in college and, much to my parents annoyance, I moved in with the love of my life. Ah, he was the one. Not that I was looking for him; boys were for flirting with, going to movies with, and other stuff.
I wasn't looking for Mr. Right, by any stretch of the imagination. He just showed up one day, right behind my car, and I nearly ran him over. But that's another story.
In any event, we fell wildly in love and after an extremely long courtship, seven weeks, I moved into his tiny little off-campus apartment. We lived in bliss. Stupid in love and probably drove everyone within a mile of us insane. I enjoyed playing house; cooking, sewing, cleaning. He did the nasty guy stuff of taking out the trash and dealing with my constantly wonky car and waiting for me at my classroom the nights I had a late class.
We had one little problem.
He hated shaving.
I do not like men with facial hair. They can be as hairy as a goat, but as long as the face is scraped clean each day, I don't care. Men think their beard, goatee or mustash are all that. They are not. Not to me, anyway. They are not sexy and they're scratchy in all the wrong places at the wrong times. Not being one to nag, then or now, I would politely ask him to shave every morning. He gave a long list of reasons why he didn't, wouldn't shave and implied that if I really if I really loved him it wouldn't matter.
I'm a big believer in the carrot on a stick theory of management. The carrot, in the beginning, was a cup of coffee, delivered with a kiss, as soon as he woke up. I'd rub his cheek and say something about how nice it would be if I had a clean, smooth, face to rub each morning.
That got me no where.
Next up: breakfast in bed.
Yup, no response.
Well, there were responses, but they had nothing to do with shaving. Nice, but not what I was after.
One his multiple reasons for not shaving was how harsh it was - painful, I think he said - on his face. I remembered the baby oil and thought: I'll get him to put baby oil on my legs and he can shave them and see how easy it will be.
Well, he got the oil on but somehow the shaving bit never took place. After other things got in the way and dealt with, he didn't feel like shaving my legs. "Next time," he offered.
I came up with a new plan.
The following week I did not deliver coffee in bed with a kiss. Instead, I lay in bed, pretending to still be asleep and waited for him to get into the shower. I went into the bathroom as soon as I was sure he was
under the water. I grabbed the baby oil and a new razor. Stripped out of the jammies and jumped into the shower. He was really happy to see me until he spotted the razor.
"Um... Laur..." looking a little scared, shooting glances from the razor to my face to the razor again.
I cooed "I'm going to give you a shave."
I pinned him against the back of the shower with one hip as I pour out some baby oil:
"Doesn't that smell wonderful?" I said.
"Um, a..." he studdered. Sensory overload. Fear of the razor, warm oil on his face, me pinning him (well, not that hard) to the shower wall.
You get the picture.
I got the oil on his face and then reached for the soap because we didn't have any shaving cream. I lathered up his face and started shaving. Never having given a man a shave before, and shaving both oil and soap, I was doing it a bit too gently. He muttered something about having to do it harder and I just laughed and applied a little more pressure. When I was down around his throat he started getting nervous again and, with some malicious glee, said:
"Don't you trust me?" and laughed.
"Just be careful." His voice was low and a little hard, but his eyes were laughing.
Or was that fear?
In any event, I finished up and said:
"There, was that so bad?"
"No. It was really nice." he said.
"Do I get a tip?" I asked, laughing.
It became our morning ritual.