Ouch

What is the point of aftershave anyway? A masochistic rite of passage? One that occurs every day instead of once in a lifetime?

Or in my case, once that occurs once a week instead of once of a day. I dallied with the idea of shaving regularly for a few months a couple of years ago. But I decided against it. For two reasons, the first being that I am lazy but I cannot bear an uneven shave or the least hint of stubble after a shave. This means that I will scrape and scrape and then scrape some more, until my epidermis begs for mercy and my facial hair crouch petrified in their follicular fortresses. And as a result of this “obsession”, all my shaves end up being twenty minute imprecation-laden marathons. The second reason is that I do not like the pain (Quelling the epidermis and forcing the hair to crouch petrified in their follicular fortresses can be done only when I use scorched earth tactics on my skin. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations).

So, now I have the stubbled look. Some people can carry off this look. Unfortunately I am not one of them. Instead of looking good, I look vaguely like a guilty criminal with a bad hangover and a touch of dyspepsia. And not a even cool criminal, one worth emulating, like Don Corleone or this guy. But more like the criminal who comically knocks himself out by walking into a door when on the run from the cops.

However, I’m lazy and I mislike pain and so I shall continue to keep the stubbled look. But I shall add an eye patch and pirate hat to look more sinister and less ineffective

I just realized that I haven’t said anything about aftershave. If you have never put yourself through this torture, let me describe it to you. Imagine scraping off a layer of skin and lightly dusting it with pepper. Multiply that by a hundred and divide by π. That’s how painful it is.

I now realize that this is nothing but a thinly masked diatribe against my arch nemesis the razor blades.

In other news, coincidence is a bitch.

That’s all folks.