I hate shaving. I only use an electric shaver because I don't want there to be any chance of death in the morning. I'm not comfortable handling razor blades before I've had my morning coffee. It just doesn't feel right.
It seems like no matter how many times I run that little humming contraption over my beautiful skin it never seems to get it all. I could probably spend 3 days shaving and I'd still miss a spot. Of course by that time I'd have a small beard on the side of my face where I started at. How frustrating would that be?
That reminds me of my first job. I was 15 years old, and I got a Summer job working in the Maintenance department of Everett Community College. It was a Community College in Everett. I can't remember my exact job title, but it definitely should have been, "weed puller".
We worked 4 ten hour days each week, 40 hours total. I spent about 36 hours of each week pulling weeds. I would have pulled for the full 40, but the Maintenance department's motto was, "arrive late and leave early". Who was I to mess with such rich tradition?
And don't worry, nearly the entire department got fired and restructured a few years later, so no ones going to get in any trouble for that confession... I'm pretty sure they made them change the departments motto after the restructuring.
Pulling those weeds was endless, though. You start on one side of the campus, and before you know it you need to circle back. Those things grow faster than freaking facial hair! I guess facial hair is like the weed of the face in that regard.
I suppose that's one rebuttal I could dish out next time the other gender is trying to guilt trip me for not having to deal with a "time of the month", or, me not helping carry the baby in my stomach for any portion of the 9 months.
"Well, at least you don't have to deal with weeds growing on your face", I'll tell them.
On second thought, that's probably a horrible idea.
I should probably stick to perfecting my face garden. Back before I had to landscape my face, when I was still a wee novice at the college, we worked with this character named, "Jan". Jan looked like he was about 95, but I think he was around 50. He smoked 2 packs a day, and he always ripped the filters off his cigarettes before he lit them.
Jan didn't really talk much. He had leather skin and gray hair that was always under an old cap. He was kind of frail looking and hunched over a little when he walked. He was one of those guys who everyone listened to when he did talk. It was always pretty funny. Me and my buddy Seth would always come back from our breaks with slurpee's, and every time Jan would say in his funny slow drawn out voice, "Watch ya got therrr?"
"Slurpee's, Jan", I said.
"Slurpee's? Have a seeeeeeat", He said.
He would have his leg up on a bench or something, and he'd be leaned over with his elbow resting on his knee with a filter-less cigarette burning right down to the stinky rubber gardening gloves we all wore. We would kind of snicker as we sat, and every time he would ask us, "Smoke?" motioning his pack towards us.
"No thanks, Jan. I still don't smoke", I'd say.
We had this conversation nearly every single day, and it always cracked me up. We would just sit and slurp, me and my co-weed puller, Seth. Jan would pull out another smoke as he flicked one to the ground, rip the filter off a fresh one, and we'd sit and watch the pretty college girls walk by.
It actually wasn't that bad of a life, pulling weeds for 36 hours a week.
Things were a little simpler when I was younger.
Before I had to shave.
Sometimes I wonder what life was like for Jan before he had to shave. I think he was from an old farm family, or something. I wonder about all the stories he must have had, and I wondered why he didn't talk much, and why he smoked so many damn cigarettes.
Jan retired about 10 years later, and passed away that same year. They dedicated a bench to him in one the the gardens at the college. I never drink Slurpee's anymore, except when I go visit Jan's bench. My Slurpee and I sit and enjoy the garden together. And when no one is around, I say to myself, "Watch ya got therrr? Slurpee? Have a seeeeeat." Which makes me snicker like I'm 15 again.
I sit and ponder about this guy I worked with every single day for 3 Summer's in a row. How for countless years more he kept those grounds. Even though we were essentially strangers, somehow that dirt we dug in together keeps us bonded. I regret that I know none of his stories. But I'm glad he is a part of mine.
As I leave the garden starting to get a little watery in the eyes, someone asks me, "are you okay?"
I said, "yes, it's just a brain freeze".
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