Hump Day: Attempt at a closer shave results in a bloody mess

Hump Day 2 croppedHump Day
By Brian Cormier
Wednesday, Feb. 18, 2015
Moncton Times & Transcript

Have you ever had one of those weeks when you start questioning your sanity? Last week was mine. Actually, I was pretty sure the time had finally come to check into a seniors’ home, set myself up in a nice comfy rocking chair and wait for the angelic beings with wings to tell me to walk toward the light.

I received a very nice electric razor for Christmas as a gift from my mother. Having gouged myself a number of times while shaving at the speed of light with a regular razor, I decided the time had come to switch back to an electric one. Previous attempts years ago had left my face pretty much minus one entire layer of skin. It wasn’t pretty. It looked like I’d had one of those expensive chemical peels the rich people get to make their faces look younger.

I’d practically decapitated myself a few times with a regular razor and tore my face apart with an electric one. I didn’t know what to do. I did my research and settled on a certain shaver. My mother paid for it and I pretended to be shocked and surprised on Christmas morning. That’s what Christmas is when you get older. “Just buy the gift and give it to me to wrap. And act surprised. You might want to cry a little bit, too. It’s Christmas.”

Those words are repeated a lot in my family these days since we’re long past when surprises were a big deal.

The electric shaver works fine and doesn’t irritate my skin at all. I like it very much. I can shave while watching television or surfing the Internet. I don’t have to be standing in front of the bathroom mirror shielding my jugular from a razor blade, at least.

I have a meeting every Tuesday at 7:15 a.m. Yes, you read that right. 7:15 a.m. Bright and early. In the dead of a chilly winter, it’s a brutal wake-up call.

shavingLast Tuesday, I decided that I just didn’t have time to commit to five minutes of the whirring electric shaver. I’d just do a quick job with the regular razor. Everything seemed to go well. I shaved and got cleaned up.

Not only was I attending a meeting that morning, but I was also chairing it. There’s nothing quite so invigorating as wielding power over people by asking them to say grace and give a toast to Canada before everyone sits down to eat. I walked into the restaurant where the meeting is held, got myself settled in and then heard those infamous words from a colleague, “You’re bleeding. Your ear!”

I reached up to my ear and my hand came back looking like I’d dipped it in bucket of red paint. I’d nicked my earlobe while shaving and hadn’t noticed. Blood was dripping on my shirt. My coat collar was full of it, too. I looked like a walking advertisement for a beef slaughterhouse.

No big deal, I thought. I’ll just apply some pressure with some tissues and it will stop. How serious could it be? It’s just a stupid earlobe. Well, after trying to chair the meeting while holding a wad of tissues to my ear, it became quite apparent that I was losing the battle. Imagine trying to eat breakfast while the chair of the meeting is holding tissues to his ear that are becoming redder by the minute.

Eventually, I caved in and abruptly passed the gavel to someone else and sped home to where my trusty styptic pencil was. Those little miracle workers do wonders on nicks. Hold the pencil on the nick, wince from the sting and the cut stops bleeding. So much for my brilliant idea of saving time with the regular razor.

Then, on Wednesday, I got all gussied up for an event at noon. Shirt and tie. Blazer. Business cards. I hopped in the car and drove 10 kilometres to the location and was shocked that the parking lot was empty. I went inside and nothing was set up. I thought, “Wow, they’re cutting things close!” I was even 10 minutes late.

Eventually, I figured that I must be at the wrong location. I checked. I wasn’t. It’s 11 a.m. It’s the 11th. I’m at the right location. The right room. This doesn’t make any sense. Yup, it was the 11th alright. February 11. It’s just too bad the event was on March 11.

I think I’ll go curl up with the groundhog who predicted six more weeks of winter. Clearly, I need more sleep. I hope he doesn’t snore.

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