Thou Shalt Not Envy

I have struggled for the longest time to understand why so many women compare themselves to the air-brushed covergirls that grace our checkout lines and newsstands. To me, it would be like comparing apples to wax oranges. Does-not-compute. One is real, one is fake. One tastes nice to kiss, the other like newsprint… not like I ever tried kissing the Cameron Diaz 1996 edition of Rolling Stone… wouldn’t know anything about that.

But maybe it does make sense?!

For I found myself in the exact same situation as my female counterparts (minus the sex change). There I was, minding my own business, watching TV, and then he comes on. Oh how I dislike him! But it’s not the pearly white teeth that get to me. Nor the chiseled abs. I could care less about that jawline. It’s the shave! I want it, nay, need it! Oh sure, we all know he’s had a laser remove every last follicle from his face. I’m not stupid. I know there’s not even a blade in there. But as the (faux) razor glides across his adam’s apple without hitting the slightest speed bump I am filled with envy. I want the impossible, I purchase the impossible, and then I attempt the impossible - a really, really, close shave.

I am optimistic at first. Never mind the prior attempts. Those must have failed due to faulty equipment, this time it will be different. I put my best shave face on. Jaw protruding out for good angles, upper lip filled to 20psi, and I commence to tear my skin apart with a triple stacked blade. The sting is just a reminder of how lazy I’ve become. “From now on, I’m going to shave everyday!”, I say to myself. How else could I justify spending so much on a device that has been around almost as long as the face.

After a solid 10-15 minutes of hacking away last week’s 5 o’clock shadow I am ready for inspection. But alas, I look nothing like ol’ laser-razor boy. Instead, I bare an unsettling resemblance to that of a man stricken with the pox. Patchy, bloody, and now plain pissy, I blame genetics and storm off, more determined than ever to grow a beard. I resign to the fact that I am stuck with this face and the only memories of me will be tainted with a sandpaper like texture.

As I slump back down into the recliner a magazine ad catches my eye. “More Than Just A Blade” - hmmm, I’m listening…