Cast your mind back to your days as a wee lad, or lass.

Barring an unfortunate condition of some kind, the chances are that your father shaved. He definitely shaved.

Nay, he shaved, definitely.

Every stroke of the blade/pen knife/shard of glass was deliberate, powerful, pregnant with intent to do grievous harm to the brutal man wire that had forced it’s way through his face in the last 12 hours.

And when his face was smooth as shark skin, he wouldn’t moisturise.

No, sir.

He would slap on some Old Spice. And then he would go to  work, hire three people, fire four, land a deal, pick up a bouquet of flowers for your mother on the way back home, show up in a new car in time to scoop up his wife for date night, before getting home in time to spank you for going through his men’s lifestyle magazines, which, one quarter of Scotch later, had morphed into an honest and insightful discussion of male virtue in a modern world.

And in the morning, he would shave again.

It’s only a few weeks until Father’s Day. You know what to do.