The Shaving Predicament

"Can it really be done that way?" Henry asked in surprise.

Though he didn't know the specifics, one thing Henry did know was that he had no legal identity. Wherever he went to get documents—even just fake ones—he was completely in the dark.

Now that Tom said he could handle it, how could he not be astonished?

Old Tom, however, grinned smugly. "This is Alaska. As long as you're not a federal fugitive, everything's easy."

He paused, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Actually, even if you were, there are ways to deal with it. You're not, are you?"

Henry quickly shook his head. "Of course not."

"Good." Tom resumed his relaxed demeanor as he spoke.

Soon, they turned a corner and stopped in front of an office with a large glass storefront. On the glass was pasted the words "Old Tom's Manpower Agency and Consulting Company." Inside, a middle-aged woman was processing documents.

Tom led Henry inside, but the woman didn't even look up, not sparing them a glance. Her demeanor as an old-hand, auntie-level clerk was unmistakable.

A few strange gold coins were scattered on the desk. Only when Old George gestured did the woman unhurriedly sweep the coins into a drawer.

As Henry walked past her, he unsurprisingly met a disdainful nose-pinching gesture. The woman said, "Wow, where'd you fish this one out of—some stinking ditch?"

"One of Old George's crew, just off the boat."

"Oh, alright." Clearly, the woman knew who Old George was and understood the implication of "just off the boat."

Stinky as he was, he had money in his pocket! So even the stench had to be tolerated. Don't think white folks are all too noble to bow for five bushels of rice.

Luckily, the woman didn't do a complete about-face and fawn over him with solicitous care—otherwise, Henry would've been mortified. He feared his long-restrained iron fist would have gone all out.

Still, this kind of attitude—judging people by their circumstances—was something Henry, in his past life, wasn't entirely unaccustomed to, even if it wasn't routine.

He wasn't angry. At worst, her attitude was just rude—not a full-on provocation or anything physical. Besides, it was true he was a mess; who was he to stop others from pointing it out?

As an aside, this body didn't actually sweat, though it did radiate normal body heat.

So the smell came from seawater mixed with all sorts of strange juices from King Crab, then double-blasted by body heat evaporation and the rapid cooling of the outside temperature.

Especially the salt in the seawater. With that stuff, any smell turned bizarre.

Taking the clean clothes from Tom, Henry borrowed the office's bathroom. As he passed the large bed, he couldn't help but speculate mischievously whether Tom was hoping to seduce his secretary or some female client who came begging.

But given the shabby place, that bed probably didn't see much action.

The shower was nothing special—just scrubbing hard. Since he couldn't scrub himself raw, he made sure to wash off every bit of grime, treating it like a thorough cleanup.

The dirt that wasn't part of his body was easy enough, but his hair and beard were another story.

Henry tried cutting a strand with scissors. When he found he couldn't, he didn't bother forcing it. Trying too hard would probably just break the scissors.

So how to deal with this face?

From memory, he recalled in Superman cartoons that the big guy used Heat Vision and a mirror's reflection to tidy himself up.

So could he shoot light from his eyes? Henry had never tried that.

To avoid wrecking someone else's bathroom, Henry first raised his palm in front of him, planning to use himself as a target.

But how did you shoot Heat Vision? There was no online tutorial!

He strained a few times like he was taking a dump, eyes bulging. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened.

Then he silently chanted I want to shoot Heat Vision in his mind—still useless.

So Henry had to fall back on distant memories. There were many works depicting Superman's origins, but the most detailed was probably the long-running TV series Smallville.

The Kryptonian boy Clark Kent, gradually awakening his various powers, first shot Heat Vision because of... sexual arousal!

Seeing a fair-skinned, long-legged beautiful teacher, an ordinary boy would just have wet dreams and a nosebleed. But the future Superman's eyes literally lit up, nearly burning down his family's barn!

So... what was that hinting at? That he needed to find his belated adolescence?

Or recall the adolescence he'd left behind over thirty years ago, before the transmigration?

To manage his own haircut and shave, Henry had to try anything.

He closed his eyes, and the images of various teachers from his D-drive seemed to spin before him. Thanks to his super brain, he remembered every video he'd watched clearly, even the catalog numbers.

Unsurprisingly, the first reaction came from his lower half. Then a surge of heat started at his tailbone, climbing up through his spine, neck, and the back of his head.

This change made Henry oddly think of the new Hollywood Godzilla, just before it fired its nuclear breath.

Could it be that he wasn't a Kryptonian, but a humanoid Godzilla?

Abruptly, a final impulse—like the peak before the post-nut clarity—flooded into... his eyes. Henry couldn't help but open them, and saw everything turn red. Then his right hand felt a burning pain.

The sensation came and went quickly, just like a man's climax.

The world returned to normal colors. His right hand, held up as a target, hadn't been shot through—just two scorch marks on the palm.

Henry had secretly tested himself before: boiling water meant for coffee, when he touched it with his hand, did nothing. It just felt very hot, with no pain at all, let alone injury.

This pain was the first he'd felt since leaving the underground research facility.

But it was like breaking through some membrane, lifting a certain restriction. Whenever he wanted, he could shoot Heat Vision now, and even adjust its intensity and duration.

It was like installing a switch and valve for Heat Vision in his brain, though the finer control would need some practice.

Alright, after dealing with this Kryptonian-specific instinct tied to sexual arousal, the next problem was even more headache-inducing.

How do you use a mirror to reflect your own Heat Vision, with the intensity high enough to melt the hair you've secreted?

It feels like casually grabbing a mirror and bouncing Godzilla's nuclear blast ray right back at him.

Yet, as unbelievable as it sounds, Superman actually pulled it off!

So if anyone claims that everything about Superman is based on science, and therefore his magic resistance is weak, let them explain how an ordinary mirror reflects Heat Vision to shave the beard off an Iron Body.

If they can come up with a plausible physical explanation, they'd deserve a Nobel Prize.

New book, requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thank you~