Monday, April 19, 2010

Memoir Monday: In Which I Shave For The First Time.

(Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!)




I'm sure all of us have experienced the moment of deciding we have WAY to much hair, wherever it might be placed, and deciding that it is time to shave it all off. Today's story revolves around the very first time I ever picked up a razor, and just how naive I was.

My dad told me, "Son, you don't want to start shaving. Once you start, you'll never be able to quit, and you'll hate it." Of course, I was about 13, and I was a man. I had some peach fuzz, nothing that was even visible unless you had a good light source and maybe one of them fancy NASA telescopes for checkin out bumps on the moon.

I had no intention of listening to my fathers advice, and so I bugged him about it until he finally gave me a can of shaving foam, a disposable razor, and the words, "Knock yourself out. Just be careful." I took all three of these things to the restroom, where I began to lather up. My father had gone over all the steps with me, so I splashed hot water on my face, then put the foam on, then sat there for a while so that it would "loosen up" that peach fuzz that was already softer than than Obama approach to diplomacy.

Then I started shaving. Oh how thrilled I was! I peeled away the foam one stripe at a time, being oh so very careful not to cut myself. I did a hell of a nice job too, because I didn't once even give myself a nick! I was a pro already, and it was the first time I'd ever shaved! I rinsed the razor every third or fourth pass, but I never once took my eyes off the mirror, because I was enjoying every second of this grown up activity.

Finally, I was done. I put the razor to the side and splashed my face with water much like the men do in the shaving cream commercials. That made a mess I had to clean up, but after I was done with that, I looked in the mirror to examine my newly shorn chin and upper lip. Alas, they were so much smoother! I had missed some spots, but oh how manly I felt!

I reached down for the razor to do some light touch up work, and for the first time since I'd started, I happened to look at the blades. They looked awful white. They looked awful plastic. They looked an awful lot like I had neglected to ever take the cap off the razor the entire time I had spent shaving. And it turns out, that was exactly the case. I had spent the entire time shaving my face with a capped razor.

Of course, my family had a wonderful belly laugh at my expense, and I realized then that it was obviously not time for me to start shaving, if I had in fact knocked a few hairs off with the damn safety cap. If you think that stopped me though, you are dead wrong. I marched right back into that bathroom, uncapped that razor, foamed up again, and proceeded to butcher my pre-pubescent face into a bloody mess that took a couple of days to heal. But don't think for a second that I didn't enjoy using a half roll of toilet paper to cover my new "battle wounds."

And now it is true, I hate shaving. I only have to about once or twice a week, because part of me is still that 13 year old boy that can't grow facial hair. However, if it were up to me, I'd go back to that peach fuzz anytime. That's real.