Where's Sweeney Todd when you really need him?

I shaved on Monday night, and I expect a badge for courage in the mail by the end of the week.

It was scary as hell because I had to use a mirror. For about 45 minutes, under a bright, unforgiving light, I subjected myself to the image that the rest of the world has to deal with around the clock.

If I had the cojones to take a self-portrait right now and post it on this blog, I'm sure that many of you would scoff, "You call that a shave?!" There are entire patches of whiskers on my face that I left alone.

My straight-edge razor just won't go to those places. The skin has hardened to granite and the surface is lumpy. Getting a clean shave in those regions of my face is like trying to landscape Mount Rushmore with a lawnmower.

Other parts of my face are clear sailing for my razor. The area between my upper lip and my nose —has that part of the body been given a name yet?— is still soft as a baby's behind and the area below my ears present no problem for the most part.

But my neck, chin and the area below my lower lip are a No Man's Land. And because I lack feeling in those places, I can't really tell when I nick myself until I see blood oozing out and making candy stripe-like swirls with the shaving cream.

I put the blade away for the night. In the morning, before heading out to work, I'll see if I can make some last-minute improvements before heading to the office.

I don't expect perfection, but it makes me feel better if I at least try.

And I better add Band-aids to my list of items to pick up on my weekly runs to Ralphs.