Humor Non-Fiction posted January 11, 2022

This work has reached the exceptional level
It can be scary looking in the mirror

Images From My Mirror

by T B Botts

When I was a young man I couldn't wait to start shaving. I guess I figured it meant I was a man in my foolish, immature mind. When a few lost hairs accidentally managed to sprout on my baby face, I strutted around like a Bantam rooster, showing them to whomever had eyesight like an eagle. It was a bit ironic; I wanted to shave, but I also wanted to let folks see that I could indeed grow a beard, though you could plant a field in the bare space between hairs. I finally bit the bullet and bought a can of shaving cream. My dad never used the stuff; he was old school. Dad used a cup with a sliver of soap and a brush. He had a heavy, black beard and used to have to shave twice a day. At the time I thought that would be cool.

I borrowed Dad's safety razor, which really seems to be a misnomer. You put a razor blade in a steel contraption and close the lid down on the blade and commence scraping your tender skin with this medieval torture device. There really should have been a sticker on it, much like there is on packs of cigarettes these days.

CAUTION: This device is a dangerous tool in the hands of the foolish and inexperienced. Has been known to cause extreme blood loss. Use at your own risk.

It takes quite a bit of practice to master the process, running a sharp piece of straight steel across the curves and valleys of your face. Needless to say, for the first few years, whenever I worked up the courage to shave again, I left the bathroom with a half a roll of toilet paper stuck to my face trying to staunch the flow from the various self-inflicted wounds.

Nowadays I only shave about every three days. Even though razors have entered the space age and are so much safer, I just don't like shaving. I have a mustache, so that saves some of the hassle, but there is still plenty of area left to scrape.

I was looking in the mirror this morning and realized that I had to drag out the scissors and do a little work on the ol' mug. For one thing, my eyebrows resembled a pair of hedgehogs. The hairs get so long they poke me in the eye sometimes, always a sure sign that I need a trim. I once had a co-worker grab one of my eyebrows and give it a good hard pull. It was so long she thought it was a loose hair from my head. While it was funny for her, I darn near had a whiplash injury.

Speaking of hair on my head, there is a lot less of it than there used to be. I'm not bald by any means, but the brush meets a lot less resistance than it used to. What baffles me is that the hair on the side of my head grows like it's been fertilized. What gives with that?

Another one of life's great mysteries is the hair that grows out of men's ears. What is the purpose of it? Did our ancestors live in really cold country that required copious amounts of ear hair to sprout to keep out the snow or what? I look like a Lynx with the tufted ears. At least it serves some purpose on the lynx. If I've got to grow hair in my ears it ought to at least give me hearing like a bat. The hairs should serve like  antennas, or, at night, keep out the noise from the traffic so I can sleep.

Women don't grow ear hair- why not? I'm glad they don't. I'm really glad they don't grow hair on their chests, that would be a bit of a turn off. If your wife had more chest hair than you, you might develop a complex.

There are a few pressing questions I'd like to ask God if I make it to heaven. I'm sure there is reason for all this, or perhaps He just wanted to get a laugh now and then when he looks at mankind.

Story of the Month contest entry



I'm always amazed at what greets me in the morning mirror. I think I used to be fairly good looking- what happened? And what's with hair growing out of noses and ears? It's kind of gross.
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Artwork by Raoul D'Harmental at

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