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Jewish World Review June 30, 2006 / 4 Tamuz, 5766 My Close Shave: The adventures of a not-so-smooth operator By Gene Weingarten
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
The question that we columnists hear most frequently is: "Where do you get your ideas from?" It's a stupid question, because it ends in a preposition. So I generally ask people to rephrase it using proper grammar, which they do: "Where do you get your ideas from, jerk?" Today, I will end the unpleasantness with a straight answer. We columnists get our ideas in many ways: reading things, hearing things, stealing things from impressionable young people who trust us. This column is a case in point. I got the idea from a gifted writer named Danny Jacobs, who asked my opinion of a humor piece he had done for his college paper at the University of Maryland. I said it was swell. Then I stole it. This is all part of my personal program to acquaint young journalists with important truths. In this case: Beware, there are vultures everywhere. For his article, Danny shaved one half of his face with a new, super-hyped five-blade razor, the other half with his trusty electric, and then had fellow students feel which shave was closer. (The blade.) It occurred to me that in the hands of a pro such as I, this idea would present an important journalistic opportunity to ask women I do not know to stroke my face. Plus, I had a great pretext. For the past year — to the derision of my wife and friends — I have been shaving with a flat-blade, straight-edge razor. No sane person has used a straight razor since the era of bustles and spittoons; back then, of course, people also used corncobs for personal hygiene. I shave this way because I think it's cool to approach one's carotid artery once a day with what is, essentially, a guillotine. But that's immature, so I tell people I do it because a straight razor gives a closer shave. Here was an opportunity to discover whether I might actually be telling the truth. I shaved two hours ago, using my straight razor on the right side of my face, and an ordinary three-blade Gillette disposable on the left. In the interest of science, I am now about to go out in the street and ask 30 women to judge the results. Hang on.
Okay, I'm back. I am pleased to report that all but three agreed to participate. One of these turndowns, however, did not go well at all. She listened patiently to my proposal and then wordlessly began to run/walk away in the direction of Pennsylvania Avenue, a major thoroughfare with police cruisers. Mustering as much dignity as possible, I headed away, slowly but purposefully, in the opposite direction. Another turndown went like this: Pam: Are you asking only women? Me: Well . . . yes. Pam: Why? Me: Pam: I'll do it if you get a man to do it first. So I guess, in that case, it was actually I who declined. Most women seemed to take this diagnostic task very seriously. Several checked with the backs of their hands, like a mom testing for fever. Philosophically, the experience was intriguing — a metaphor for the uncertainty of romance. The mechanics of a caress aren't all that different from those of a slap; it's mostly a matter of emphasis. At the Citibank ATM, I explained to a woman named Christianne what I wanted her to do, and she asked: "You mean . . . with my hand?" I stammered the first thing that came into my head: "Well, with whatever you think appropriate." She did it anyway. There were scary moments. One young woman named Carole heard my pitch, and, stony-faced, immediately reached into her pocketbook (mace?) and produced a business card (lawsuit?). Fortunately, she just rubbed the edge of the card against my cheeks, listening for differences in the scratching sound. "Disappointed I didn't use my palm?" Carole asked. "No!" I lied. Now I know what you are thinking: You are thinking that only a pathetic middle-aged man would derive some sort of pleasure from this tiny, silly degree of anonymous intimacy. And I'd have to say you were right. I am completely ashamed of myself. The final tally: Thirteen said the left side of my face was smoother. Thirteen said the right side was smoother. One could not decide. In short, I may have to do it again. For science.
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Gene Weingarten writes the Below the Beltway humor column for The Washington Post. To comment, please click here.
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