I remember being young lad of eighteen who dreamt of shaving like all the other college Sophomores. At the time, long sideburns were in, and I could barely manage peach fuzz below the ears. I envied the girls on campus who were often more hirsute than I (one had more hair on her forearms than I have on my legs). I fantasized about the cool froth of shaving cream against my skin. I even considered going to the local witch-woman in hopes of some gris-gris that would stimulate the hair follicles on my face. I lit votive candles and asked St. Wilgefortis (she had no trouble growing a beard) to intercede, but all my efforts brought me nothing...
Until my twentieth year, when inexplicably black hairs began to sprout on my chin. Ecstatic that I might finally be able to grow the goatee and mustache so popular among the bohemian set, I forgot all about my previous desire to shave. That is, until I realized that I still couldn't grow a mustache or goatee, just really unattractive scruff. So, I began to take up shaving, and found out to my surprise that it was thoroughly unpleasant. My weekly ritual invokes almost as much fear in me as a visit to the dentist. In order to keep myself from looking like some sort of scraggly lunatic, I must clumsily slide sharp metal across my skin, inevitably suffering cuts and nicks. Although each time I lather up, I get flashbacks from The Color Purple with Celie holding a razor to Mr.'s throat, I endure this torture to ensure that my boyish looks are not marred by sparse facial hair in random and unappealing configurations.