A not-so-close shave

Dr. B1 does so much for me, and I do so little for him.

So when I woke up at 4 this morning so I could get to the admitting desk at Kaiser Hospital by 6 a.m. for my biopsy, I thought maybe it was time to do something nice for my doctor for a change.

If Dr. B1 is going to be staring at my homely mug for the duration of today's procedure, I figured, the least I could do is make it pretty for him. So I decided to shave.

Remember those Norelco commercials that ran on TV every Christmas when "Frosty the Snowman" was broadcast? You know, the ones with Santa Claus riding a Norelco razor over hills of snow?

Well, when I run my electric razor over my misshapen mug, my face reminds me of the hilly terrain in those Norelco spots. Shaving is a miserable experience —made even worse by the near-total numbness in the lower third of my face, which also seems to be hardening into concrete— and I don't do it often.

Reader, I should have left my puss alone.

In mid-shave, my electric razor sputtered out. Now my face is half-smooth, half-whiskery. I look like the front yard of a Beverly Hills estate if the gardeners went on strike in the middle of mowing the lawn.

I should have known that manscaping my mug today would lead to disaster. When Dr. B1 sees me in a few hours, knocked out on his operating table, who knows what he'll think?

I expect when I come to later today I'll find myself tethered to a bed in Kaiser's psychiatric ward.