I went to a barber.

Every now and then, I like to go to a barber to remind myself what a good old fashion shave feels like.  And every now and then, the barber tries to give me the closest shave possible.

Sometimes I warn the guy telling him that I have sensitive skin, so he should probably just shave with the grain. Other times, the barber figures this out himself and concedes the perfect shave in order to spare me bloodshed. 

However, sometimes the barber seems so confident that I think to myself, maybe this guy is good enough to not cut me on pursuit of a smooth face. Maybe this is the barber I’ve been looking for, maybe he’s the one who can save me from this eternal curse of a sandpaper chin. Certainly he has dealt with people like me before, he must already have everything worked out. Maybe I could learn I thing or two from him.

So I refrain, I refrain from saying anything, and let the pro do his job, me just sitting quietly with my eyes closed enjoying the hot towel on my face.

Invariable, it begins. 

“Shit” - not a word you want to hear from someone handling a sharp knife around your neck. “Fuck” “Shoot”, it goes on, starting at my neck, through my chin, around my lips, everywhere. I feel every nick, every cut, perfectly synchronized with a curse. 

My reward? A face covered in blood. Alas, another dud. At least my face is super smooth…well, for today anyways.

Written on April 3, 2012