What fucking grain? My facial hair grows in like seventeen different directions like it was trying to spell out some kind of ancient curse. It was less "grain pattern" and more "chaotic art installation created by someone having a mental breakdown."
I applied shaving cream—way too much shaving cream, apparently, because I now looked like I was cosplaying as Santa Claus if Santa was having an identity crisis—and made my first careful stroke.
Immediately, blood.
"Shit!" I hissed, watching red mix with white foam like some kind of low-budget horror movie that would make even the Saw franchise cringe.
Second stroke: more blood, because apparently my face was made of tissue paper and regret.
Third stroke: I was basically creating modern art using my own plasma as the medium.
"Minor cuts are normal," Beard Guy continued cheerfully from my phone, apparently reading my mind through the screen like some kind of sadistic life coach. "Just apply pressure and keep going."
Keep going? I looked like I'd lost a fight with a paper shredder that had personal beef with my face, but sure, let's keep going—because nothing says "attractive" like looking like you barely survived a blender accident.
Twenty minutes later, I had achieved what could generously be called "facial hair removal" and what more accurately resembled "self-inflicted torture that would make medieval executioners uncomfortable." My face was covered in tiny pieces of toilet paper where I'd tried to stop various bleeding incidents, making me look like I'd lost a fight with a paper shredder that held a personal grudge.
But hey, I'm smooth. Mostly. And only slightly traumatized in ways that will probably require therapy.
Hair styling came next, and this was where things got really pathetic in ways that would make even reality TV producers feel bad for me.
My hair had always just... existed. I washed it, it dried, it did whatever the hell it wanted like it had its own Netflix show and character development arc. But apparently there was a whole science to making it look intentionally good instead of accidentally acceptable.
"Men's hair tutorial: messy but sexy," I searched, because that seems achievable for someone whose hair naturally looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
The guy in the video has the kind of hair that definitely costs more to maintain than my mom's car payments and probably requires a team of professionals. He's giving me serious Timothée Chalamet vibes but with the personality of a YouTube ad you can't skip.
"Start with a small amount of pomade," Hair Guy instructs, holding up a container that probably costs forty dollars and looks like it was blessed by hair gods.
I don't have pomade. I have whatever generic gel my mom bought in bulk from Costco because we're living that "budget lifestyle" that influencers pretend to relate to.
"Work it through with your fingers, creating natural-looking texture."
I squeezed out what seemed like a reasonable amount of gel and immediately realized I'd used enough product to style the hair of a small boy band. My hair now looks like I dunked my head in olive oil, but with less Mediterranean charm and more "help, I'm drowning in hair product."
Attempt number two: less gel, more finger work that makes me feel like I'm giving myself a scalp massage while having an existential crisis. I'm basically trying to create "intentional messiness," which feels like an oxymoron designed to torture people who overthink everything.
After forty minutes of hair gymnastics that would impress Olympic athletes, I had achieved something that didn't look completely terrible. It wasn't quite "sexy messy," but it was definitely better than "just woke up from a coma and immediately got struck by lightning."
Clothing selection presented its own crisis that would make even fashion reality shows weep.
I stood in front of my closet like I was choosing an outfit for my own execution or a really depressing episode of Queer Eye. Everything I owned screamed "virgin nerd who shops exclusively at Target clearance racks and considers matching socks a fashion statement." My fashion sense peaked at "clean t-shirt and jeans that actually fit" and occasionally ventured into "hey, this doesn't have visible stains."
But this is Madison Torres we're talking about. Girl probably expects guys to show up looking like they stepped out of a Pacsun catalog or some shit, not like they got dressed by someone who learned fashion from YouTube tutorials and clearance sales.
I pulled out my least terrible jeans—the ones without any visible stains, holes, or evidence of my tragic relationship with food—and immediately smell-tested them like I was conducting a forensic investigation. They passed, barely, with the kind of approval you'd give to a participation trophy.
Shirt selection was more complicated than advanced calculus. I had maybe three shirts that could be considered "nice," and they were all hand-me-downs from my older sister's various boyfriends who probably had better taste than I ever would. I settled on a dark blue button-down that made me look less like a scarecrow and more like a scarecrow with aspirations and possibly a LinkedIn profile.
Everything gets the smell test because apparently this is what my life has become.
Jeans: acceptable by human standards.
Shirt: fine, if you ignore the fact that it's technically secondhand.
Socks: borderline concerning, but I'll survive unless she's planning to inspect my feet.
Underwear: this is where I realize I need to do laundry more often, but I find a pair that won't completely embarrass me if things go... well, if things go anywhere that involves underwear visibility.
Final step: cologne—or as I like to call it, "Operation Smell Like Something Other Than Teenage Desperation."
__
A/N: Who's ready for fun?