Toads-in-the-Hole

It is a truism frequently expressed that the birth of your first child completely reshuffles your priorities. Things that seemed crucial just a few days before the new arrival’s arrival dwindle to insignificance. Other things that you took for granted, did without thinking, or didn’t do at all suddenly rule your life. Does every new parent experience this reorganization, directed by the tiny little C.E.O. of the nursery? I don’t know, I don’t really have time to ask anybody. I’m too busy shaving.

After the first few heady months of adolescence when having to occasionally harvest my patchy fuzz represented my triumphant ascension to manhood, shaving quickly became a chore. There was always too much paraphernalia, mess, and, of course, minor hemorrhage. It was also surprisingly expensive to keep supplied with all the blades and lotions that a good safety razor required. I tended to skimp, and eventually I’d wind up lacerating myself with a jaggedly blunt rusty razor without any cream/gel/foam.

So I eventually switched to an electric, and again I was too cheap to buy a good one, so while I sometimes looked like I’d shaved, my face always felt rough. And I was definitely too lazy to shave everyday, which I guess is what my medium-to-low level of testosterone requires when I’m not using a Gillette mega turbo six-bladed safety razor. So Aimee would occasionally complain, and I’d occasionally grow a beard, get sick of it, shave for a while, and the cycle would continue.

Adelaide, of course, has changed all that. She never complains about my facial hair, but her skin is so sensitive that even a short exposure to it causes major exfoliation, leaving her peeling like she’d just loofa-ed a sunburn. Even worse, during a ride in the Baby Bjorn, always a good time for all, her forehead rhythmically scrapes against my neck and the underside of my jaw, always a tricky place for me to shave smooth. Again, she doesn’t wince or cry when exposed to my stubble, but looking at the destruction of her once-pristine skin causes great white-capped breakers of guilt to wash over me. “I swore to keep you safe from the world, and here I am, flaying you alive with my love! Curse you facial hair!” I cry, while shaking my fist at my own neck.

So now I shave everyday, often more than once, rubbing fruitlessly at my raw skin with my cheap-ass electric. When those ridiculous Gillette or Braun commercials come on TV, I find myself staring with open envy as glossily-smooth man-androids are stroked by awe-struck women, their hands sliding off the android’s face as though it were frictionless.

If only it were winter, I’d reduce the surface area of the problem somewhat by wearing a turtleneck all the time. As it is, I’m probably going to have to switch back to safety razors, with all those blades, batteries, scary green handles, and pungent gels and lotions. So here we have it. I’m a changed man. Fatherhood has opened my eyes to a whole new way of looking at the world. And my neck.