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Ever go to the doctor knowing he may tell you something you don't want to hear?

"The good news is, you don't have all the characteristics of what we term a 'classic' hermaphrodite."

"Here's something you can wear underneath your clothing to deal with the uncontrollable dribbling."

"I don't mean to alarm you, but please don't move -- something just dissolved the fingertip of my rubber glove."

Thus it was that the esteemed Doc Lox emailed me with his theory for why my post-workout shaves at the YMCA were so much better than the shaves I get at home.

"It's the sweating," he said. "The sweat and exertion softens your whiskers and flushes your face of its oils, which makes for an especially close, comfortable shave."

I know medical professionals are trained to deliver their diagnoses without emotional consideration, but he must have known the pain his words would inflict on me.

Because I don't want to have to factor a good solid huff'n'puff in just to get a great shave -- I want to be able to duck into the bathroom on an airplane, splash some tepid water on my face, swipe my cool-man Merkur travel razor across my puss and emerge minutes later with a Cary Grant shave. The notion of having to break a prolonged sweat before I can get the kind of shave I crave, well, it sucks is what it does.

Desperate to discount the sweaty puss theory, I decided to debunk it with a plan of pure genius. I'd go to the Y, but I'd only do a light workout -- nothing too strenuous, just a few slo-mo miles on the treadmill like the other old ladies on the machines next to me -- enough to rouse the blood but nothing to get moist over. Then I'd go down to the locker room, shower in the usual Y fashion, shave in the usual Y manner, and prove that the secret ingredient in these transcendent Y shaves was something, anything else but the sweat.

I had my Merkur Progress and my Proraso shaving soap, and my Omega boar's hair brush. I had the running water in the sink, to rinse the razor and drown out the sound of my whiskers getting cut. I had my Proraso liquid post-shave balm to slather on for good measure at the end.

But it was no use. What I got was a good shave, but not a Bob Beamon shave. I may as well have spent the last 45 mins sitting motionless in a La-Z-Boy watching "Matlock" for all the good that the sweat-free workout did me.

Fine. Good. Glad I tried it, at least. In science there are no disappointments, only data.

Naw, screw that. It totally sucks.

See, here's the thing. When you first get into this old-school wetshaving trip, you amass a huge pile of razors, brushes, creams, pre-shaves, post-shaves, cutting balms, soaps, blades, every little shaving aid and accessory that might nudge the results a little closer to the ideal.

Then later on, as you get up to speed, you start whittling it down to the bare essentials which happens to fit my minimalist philosophy to a T -- travel light, bring only the tools you need for the job and no more, and leave the sink as you found it, without a trace, as if nobody had ever shaved there at all.

I'd gotten myself to the point where all I needed for a consistently great shave was a razor, a brush, some cream, and a post-shave balm. A simple, pared-down rig that could fit in my pocket if it had to, ready to give great shave anywhere and under any circumstances. And this made me happy. I'd figured it all out. The grok had been reached.

Then I had to join the Y and find out that shaving after a sweaty workout takes the whole trip to another level. And now I'm screwed, because once you get one of these shaves, you're spoiled for anything less. Now I have a new high water mark to compare all my at-home shaves to, and they always come up short. I just can't always go work out before I shave -- it's not feasible.

I haven't fully accepted that it's the sweat and exertion which make the magic happen. All I know at this point is that the other parts of the YMCA puzzle -- the going there, the wearing of the shorts, the shower with the nice-smelling almond institutional soap, the running water in the locker room sink, the other men doing their thing at nearby sinks -- don't seem to matter.

The only thing left to do is go work out again tomorrow, only this time sweat like a pig who happened to wander into the kitchen at Big Bob Gibson's BBQ in Decatur, Alabama. Then, and only then, will I know whether or not it's the sweat that's the secret to shaving nirvana.