I'm a sounds and smells person (perhaps because my eyes aren't great!), I was listening to the painter paint the walls yesterday- the sound of the brush softly slapping against the wall. It brought back a childhood memory, of watching dad shave.
I don't know why, but as a kid, if i saw my dad shaving, I'd stop by and watch. He'd smile at me and go back to examining his face in the mirror. I used to ask him if his white stubble was sugar, because it looked like sugar pressed into his skin. He'd press a little shaving cream on the brush, and work it into a lather. The sound it made, slapping agaisnt his skin, was strangely comforting. The smell? Brilliant! Then came the scraping of the blade, followed by the even more brilliant smell of Old Spice. Though I was fascinated, I was quite glad I'd never have to shave (I didn't know then what kind of deforestation my legs would need!)
These days, I rarely stop to notice when he shaves. At best I fret over the hair lying around the sink. I guess that's what it means to be a grown up.
