My wife has kicked me out to the shed in our backyard.
Well, not permanently, although I’m sure that’s coming any day now. If I were married to me, I’d have kicked me out a long time ago. Of course, I’d have never married me in the first place. On top of that being illegal (I think), I’ve got better taste.
The shed is where I keep MY stuff: the art of dogs playing roullette (haven’t found the right spot in the living room yet); a punching bag that’s held together with heat duct tape; Jimmy Hoffa.
It’s also my designated shaving zone.
I don’t shave like most guys. Because I have a baby face, I never shave it too closely. If I get a close shave, I look 12 years old. Other than giving me the opportunity to infiltrate a middle school and become a 7th-grade basketball superstar, there are very few advantages to looking 12 when you’re 39.
So instead, I just run clippers along my face at their lowest setting, leaving me with a sort of permanent five o’clock shadow. It keeps me from looking 12 and allows me to look more like a haggard 14-year-old.
Problem with using clippers is that it can leave a mess, especially if you’re a procrastinator like I am and the bathroom looks like the scene of a Sasquatch assassination when I’m through shaving.
So, hot or cold, rain or shine, I have to trudge through the grass that needs mowing so that I can mow my face in the shed, which has a dirt floor. Although, after a few more months, it may look like the floor is shag carpet.
There was a time when I looked forward to shaving because it was one of those major steps toward becoming a man, like getting your first paying job or learning to burp the alphabet. But it didn’t take long for me to grow weary of the chore of shaving.
It didn’t help that my dad made shaving tougher than it needed to be. He didn’t buy shaving cream; soap was good enough. And he figured a razor blade was good for at least one presidential admininstration. I was a Reagan fan, but the second four-year term was a pain in the neck, and cheeks, and that spot under my nose where those five facial hairs got together and pretended to be a moustache.
I guess my dad wasn’t swayed by those TV commercials that always make the latest razor blades appear to be the greatest scientific achievement since the moon landing.
I remember when someone came up with the genius idea of putting two blades on a razor. Then somebody, in another scientific breakthrough, made one with three. Then four. Now five! Brilliant! With five blades, you can get such a close shave that random models will come up and rub your face.
No models rub my face. But they should consider it — my five o’clock shadow makes a great exfoliator.
Chris Johnson, whose column runs on Sundays, can be reached at 706-320-4403.