When I was thirteen I got my first razor. I remember it well because it was on my birthday and it was the same day I received my first cell phone. It was a crummy, inexpensive electric razor and I was able to gather that the gift was more a gag than anything else. There was a reason my mom and dad chuckled a bit to themselves when I opened it; chiefly: I didn’t need a razor. Being an average thirteen-year-old, I didn’t have much more than a little bit of unrecognisable peach-fuzz on my chin. The average great aunt possesses more facial-hair than I did at the time.

But boy did I want to use it! The way that I saw it (and the way most pre-pubescent boys probably see it), there was nothing more manly than shaving. It was going to be cool, it was going to be the primary, visible example of masculinity. I was in seventh grade at the time, and what I didn’t realize was that I was going to get hair everywhere else before on my face, and, more importantly; I wasn’t going to be all that happy with the facial hair when I finally got it.

I used the razor before every date and dance I went to from that point on. It was completely unnecessary, but it made me feel legit and important. It wasn’t until my junior year in high school that I really needed to start using the razor on a regular basis, and then it wasn’t even daily. Once every three or four days I would shave before school primarily to keep people from pointing out that my “beard” was patchy and thin. I felt so cool.

Now I’m twenty years old and I realize that shaving sucks. I can look back to those days when I only had to shave once a week and I get envious of my former self. I currently have to shave every single day. If that doesn’t sound so bad it’s because you don’t understand just what a waste of time it feels like every day. In the morning you have to take four or five minutes to make sure that later your five o’clock shadow isn’t a five o’clock Moses beard.

It’s a legitimate concern.

Maybe it’s just one of those getting-older, age-realization things, but seriously: shaving is about as disappointing as your first middle school dance or a Super Bowl against the New York Giants.

An argument can be made about the notable exceptions such as Tony Stark’s facial hair, or burly side-burns on a lumberjack, but I would counter-argue that either of those possibilities would like ridiculous on my face.

Using top-notch technology I have been able to conclude this.



One response to “Shaving

  1. Pingback: Thirty Years Ago, | Running Naked With Scissors

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