It’s Five O’clock, Do You Know Where Your Razor Is?
Every evening after I trudge home from a hard day at work, I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I’m always amazed how disheveled and unkempt I seem when only eight hours ago I was pressed and polished and preened. And every evening it occurs to me that the most striking feature of my bedraggled appearance is a dark, stubbly five o’clock shadow. Long gone is the smooth hairless face I saw in the foggy mirror that morning. The clean shaven splendor has been usurped by untidy scruff. I look into that brutally honest mirror and think, “If a five o’clock shadow makes me look like this, maybe I should clock out at four.”
When most guys come home with a five o’clock shadow, they just look rugged and manly. However on my face, this inevitable afternoon fuzz doesn’t look so much dashing as it does dirty. Those dark hairs that relentlessly pop up sometime between the morning shave and the evening commute make me look like I’ve taken a leave of personal hygiene. I can’t help but be envious of those men who look dapper and suave in the morning and by mid afternoon look like a cross between Paul Newman and Indiana Jones. They don’t know how lucky they are. They’re probably the same jerks who can pull off that “messy hair” look. I can’t do either. Give me messy hair and a face full of stubble and next thing you know I’ve got a social worker trying to take me back to the shelter. The worst part is I have a superhuman ability to grow facial hair. It’s true. I’m cursed with such a werewolf-like prowess for sprouting fur that I’m starting to think my five o’clock shadow is on Eastern Standard Time. Either way, despite my best barbershop effort, I invariably look unshaven and unkempt by early afternoon.
I’m convinced that my proclivity for growing hair has got to be due to genetics. After all, my ancestors lived in Norway and Sweden and Germany. Have you ever seen a Viking with a smooth face? No, they needed their beards to survive the snowy climate. Conversely, my brother is half Puerto-Rican and seems to have been spared the Chia Pet gene. Again I trace it back to evolution and natural selection. After one hot summer in San Juan, I’ll bet all the bearded guys were dead of heat stroke leaving the fair of face to pass on their furless chromosomes. So now I know why my body seems desperate to insulate my face, but how many generations removed from frozen tundras do you have to be before evolution cuts you a break? I’m in California now, Darwin; I think I’ll make it through the winter.
Another group that gets a lucky break is all the blonde men out there. I know guys who can go without shaving for days before anyone notices those fine, inconspicuous hairs camouflaged on their face. The dark haired men of the world don’t have this luxury. There’s no hiding my scruff and so I’m forced into lies and self delusions. Sometimes I pretend that my five o’clock shadow is a personal style choice. I call it hobo-chic. I’ve also tried convincing myself that a stubbly face is nature’s way of showing potential mates how much testosterone is coursing through me. So far I’ve yet to see a date swoon at this obvious sign of manliness. I guess some girls just aren’t ready for that “marooned on a deserted island” look.
To top off my whisker woes, there are a good number of guys out there who actually look more attractive with a little scruff. Bastards. It’s not fair that some men should look dashing while others look deranged. Why do they end the day looking like Brad Pitt’s head-shot while I look more like Nick Nolte’s mug-shot?! I can’t compete with the Marlborough men and the follicle-free. So what’s a guy to do? Unless I find a way to alter my genetic makeup or change society’s standards of male beauty, I think I’d better start making a lot of lunch dates. Either that or I need to get used to rushing home and shaving or becoming the only guy I know who has a five o’clock curfew.