January 11, 2006

# 23

I had a close shave yesterday.

While I'm completely honest when I say I'm not the world's hairiest man and that I don't have the level of ape-man qualities that, say, Robin Williams (more specifically his back) does, I do tend to sprout hair in the usual places determined by x and y chromosomes.

Relax and take a breath because this lil ole tale isn't venturing beneath the Lambada thrusting line or beneath the Adam's apple for that matter.

I was late for a meeting last night as it was, but I felt the need for rejuvenation through the ritualistic nightly shower I have gotten myself used to since about the age of three. So I scrubbed and I dabbed and I scratched and I caressed until I glanced at the clock (part of the magnificent features of the way they do things [in showers] in this great nation) and realised I was mucho, mucho late.

So out came the worn razor blade and the portable mirror as the steam reached its peak and the fan turned its head and coughed as I squeezed its manhood. Everything seemed to have the appearance of a slightly dusty bowl of plastic fruit.

I diced and I sliced with the precision of a Ginzu knife apprentice Chef ailed only by bad karma. Spontaneity had reached the zenith of one-way traffic, beyond the world renowned point of no return, as a lack of good lighting in my watery graveyard for one caused me to realise I had made a gargantuan mistake.

'Holy fucken shit my Christ!' I cried as a wave of realisation swept across my face.

I had carved a red river of mistakes across the upper region of my right jaw line which could not be erased, back spaced, Ctrl+Xed then middle-fingered out of existence.

I had to deal with facts and deal with them promptly. My beard, albeit a tufty encounter of individual facial hairs intent on behaving as pioneers of direction in their individual ways, had been ruined; for good, no less. I had ventured below the line of acceptability and time was my enemy.

I felt like Johnny Depp in Nick Of Time, only with more facial hair, a larger girth around the waist, less money in the bank, childless... Then I realised it didn't feel anything like being Johnny Depp in Nick Of Time and that maybe, just maybe, I was wishing upon a star whose sight was shrouded by bulky clouds.

Adjustments were made, in the form of taking off more and more facial hair, for reasons beyond vanity. I was making every attempt to "even things out" with the rabbit ears acting in order to stress the importance. Feelings soured with every additional cut of the twin blades' presence. Life was beginning to resemble Hell according to what a man without religion would assume Hell to be like.


That part is uncensored because it remains as much true to life today as it was yesterday.

Eventually, time and game was called in proceedings. It was decided unanimously by my face, my beard and me that I wasn't ready to step outside looking like an infant with an oversized head and obvious-but-still-somehow-sexy wrinkles around the eyes whenever I smiled.

I decided to keep a portion of the facial muff I had been growing without second thought for the course of the past three weeks. It presently resides where it did with at least five hundred equally gifted strands of hair a day ago, slightly above my jaw line on either side of my face, right up to where my ears meet the hands of my glasses. For the desire of looking not completely like a Circus sideshow attraction, I also determined the hairs playing the part of the goatee should stay.

However, the moustache is dead (long live the moustache!) and my cheeks are again at war with the otherworldly temperature outside, but I have fragments of what once was the facial quilt to end all facial quilts, at least by my definition, for posterity.

I drove to the meeting instead of cycling, arriving with enough time to spare to say 'speeding ticket evader' quickly three times, although I'm reminded of the consequences of my careless actions each time I look in the mirror.*

I reckon I've earned the right to watch Zoolander tonight. Yes-yes, y'all.

* On average, this figure is between once every six to eighteeen days.


Buddy Belcher said...

I hate Zoolander...
But man, am I jealour of your facial hair stuffs...
Me, I shave once every four or five days because I get a slight stubble after that...
So, the moral is that you are lucky to have something to loose so idiotically.

reverendtimothy said...

I'm in a similar boat to meehan. I can't grow a beard OR a mo', but I unfortunately have to shave every day still since I get enough sandpaper-like stubble to give someone pash-rash. Again unfortunately, this is not some masculine 5 o'clock shadow stubble - it's an invisible burden which forces me to shave every day with nothing to show for it if I don't (except girls with red-raw faces).

Sorry to hear about the loss of your beard baby. Have you considered doing a "Queer Eye" and shaving the lot off? Going super trendy and clean etc etc? Surprise the missus and all that?

Saathiya said...

Don't even think about it! Beards rock. My brother can grow a reasonable beard in about 3 days (pretty good me thinks considering he has no mediterranean blood in him whatsoever), fingers crossed you are equally skilled in this area.

Also, don't go down that queer eye path, next thing you know it'll be weird pioneering electrolosys for men / hot waxing on your back and bikini line. Scary.

Kaufman said...

Meehan: You should give Zoolander another go. It's childishly fabulous.

Reverend: It's the near invisibility of your stubble that's the genuine concern. The ladies would be ready for action upon seeing your youthful facial features and then kapow! 'What other tests can we do to determine a solution to this hideous mess?' would be a sentiment echoed throughout the dermatological wing of the hospital closest to the pash-rash incident.

PS A man without hair on his head and face is just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, I tell you.

Saathiya: Three days IS impressive. I'm willing to bet he's pissed off about having to shave so much. I have Mediterranean blood - it's quite warm, actually - but the thickness of hair (on my head, face, chest, legs, ass) that often accompanies such a trait was not bestowed upon me.

I'd never go the QE way for several reasons: I'm not queer, I'm very fond of having ladies in my presence, men without hair look queer; in a gay-being-from-another-planet way, etc. There'll always be facial growth as long as I'm breathing. ;)

Jen said...

I find it strange that a guy, in shaving wrongly, will by accident find a red ribbon down his jaw
but say I do something wrong with my shaver, I always end up with just a flapping "cut" that doesn't bleed at all. It's just sore.

But then the face is different to my leg I suppose.

Aminah said...

On a very tenuously related note, I always find those men who do the bald head-HUMONGOUS BEARD thing amusing. That and guys with moustaches reminiscent of Merv Hughes. I saw a little weedy guy with blonde hair and a Merv Mo' just the other day and almost fell over with laughter. He was not impressed.

Kaufman said...

Jen: The head has even greater mystery surrounding its presence around razors. Even a microscopic snick can result in a scene to make Wes Craven light-headed. Regarding your legs, I'd venture that the non-bleeding-flapping-cut doesn't apply if you cut yourself over bone.

Aminah: I totally see eye to eye with you on the gigantor beard for the follically challenged. For several years I played baseball with two brothers with similar aesthetic characteristics. I never laughed, for their cumulative strength could have crushed my spine and deprived me severly of height.

Ms Smack said...

Great post. Thoroughly enjoyed it