I’ve been shaving for many years. I’m good at it. I’ve had more practice than most due to the fact that, for the last fifteen years or so, I’ve also been shaving my head. I’m skilled.
I take my time because it seems to warrant it. People have commented that I must save a lot of time during my day not having to wash hair. The truth is it takes longer. But they don’t want to hear the truth. So, instead, I say,
“Actually, it takes longer because I have twice as much face to wash.”
That doesn’t mean accidents don’t happen. Many times they’re just little nicks and chips. A few weeks ago a woman tapped my arm and told me my head was bleeding.
I really should look at myself after shaving. But I’m a very busy man. I smiled at the woman, checked my injury and said,
“Don’t you hate when they forget to stitch you up after brain surgery?”
That’ll teach her to be helpful.
The worst cut was covered in gory detail some time ago. I reached behind myself to rinse the razor and dragged the sharp part across my ass. That wasn’t good. But, day in/day out, I have a pretty good no cut average.
But, as they say, accident happen. This morning I’m shaving my head, back to the shower, easing into whatever my day will bring. I pass my left hand across my chest to begin shaving the right side of my head.
After a few passes I think, “Did I cut myself?”
I place my face directly in front of the shower nozzle to clear my face then turn back to assess the damage, if there is indeed any.
I don’t know about you, but, when I see my own blood before seeing the cut I know I’m not going to be too happy. This was such an occasion.
I glance down to see what part of my body blood is gushing from. It only takes a moment to spot the location and for my mouth to spout,
“Aww fuck.” As I watched blood squirt from my nipple as if I’m Satan’s wet nurse.
I go about finishing my shower, stemming the flow of blood as well as I can, before getting out of the shower and placing a bandaid, for the first time in my life, over my nipple.
I don’t give it a second thought. I get dressed and move my day forward. I never even think of mentioning it to my girlfriend. First, it’s not a big deal. Second, she’d scoff at me. I figure slicing your own nipple is enough ridicule for one day.
“What did you cut?” I hear from the bathroom.
“Huh?” I say hoping her ADD/ADHD/EIEIO kicks in and we get past this.
“Why is there a bandaid wrapper in the basket? What did you cut?”
I start to laugh that oh so easy laugh I deftly fall into and say, “Nothing.”
Let me tell you something about living with a medical professional. They are as relentless as they are heartless.
“You never put a bandaid on. How bad is it?”
I begin walking toward the bathroom knowing the jig is up.
“It’s not bad. It’s more in a bad location.” I get to the bathroom door, smile (even though I know that never works), and lift my shirt.
“You. Cut. Your. Nipple.”
“You. Are. An. Idiot.”
“Yep.” I put my shirt down and turn to leave for work.
“If you don’t bleed to death bring home milk.”
“What if I die?”
“Plan ahead and have someone ready to drop some off. Is Davy visiting his sister today?”