The Morning Routine

The morning is not a suggestion; it is an appointment with the day, and the terms are not negotiable.

What follows is the sequence: face, teeth, body, dress, and the reasoning behind it.

The modern man rises, moves to the sofa in pyjama trousers and a shirt whose original colour has become speculative, and remains in this condition until the afternoon has nearly begun. The spectacle is not rest; it is surrender. A man who has not washed his face by eight o’clock has not decided to participate in the day. The day will proceed without him and be none the worse.

The order of the morning is not arbitrary. Attend to the face first, then the teeth, then the body, then dress. To scramble the sequence is to begin in confusion.

First, attend to the face. Splash cold water, or water as cool as you can bear, against the skin. The shock is a summons: the blood moves to the surface, the eyes open properly, and the fog of sleep lifts. Wash with a proper cleanser, not the same bar you have been using on everything else. Pat dry. The skin of the face is not a boot to be buffed.

Second, attend to the teeth. Two minutes: the full two minutes, not the thirty seconds that most men believe constitutes thoroughness. Brush the gums as well as the teeth, for the gums are the foundation of the structure, and the consequences of neglecting them arrive in middle age with no further warning.

Third, attend to the body. A shower, taken briskly and with purpose. Warm water, not the scalding deluge that so many favour. Wash what requires washing. Rinse. Step out. Towel dry completely; a damp man putting on clothes is not getting dressed but creating problems for the afternoon.

Fourth, dress. Not ‘throw something on’: dress. Select clothes that are clean, that fit, and that are appropriate to the day ahead. A man who has organised his wardrobe can dress properly in five minutes, and the act of putting on real clothes changes the posture and the mind. You stand differently in a proper shirt than you do in whatever you slept in.

The entire sequence, from the moment your feet touch the floor to the moment you are fit to be seen, should occupy no more than thirty minutes. Forty, if you are shaving. It is the cost of beginning the day as a man who has chosen to be present.

One has heard every objection. ‘I work from home.’ You still have a home, and you are still in it; the fact that no one will see you is not a reason to abandon standards but a reason to maintain them. ‘I am not a morning person.’ No one is, until they become one, and the becoming is simply the doing of it until the body ceases to protest.