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.
January 11, 2006
I had a close shave yesterday.