By Sarah Connor-Bagrationi
Let’s just get this out of the way: I know my name. I know what it’s from. I know my parents didn’t have a stupid sense of humor because I was born in 1983 and The Terminator didn’t come out until 1984. I wasn’t supposed to have one of the most famous female names in sci-fi, but, well, here we are.
It’s taken me a long time to get used to it, and certain things still annoy me. The quotes, the looks of surprise when people see my name…it gets old fast. But the one that used to really get on my nerves was whenever I was invited anywhere: Always with a faux-thick Austrian accent, there was “Come with me if you want to swim” at the pool, “Come with me if you want the liver” at the dinner table, “Come with me if you want to join our study group” in college (spoken by someone who didn’t quite understand how the joke worked). It just went on and on and on, and I’d had enough of it long ago.
But you know what’s more annoying than being named Sarah Connor? Try being married to a man with hideous back hair. Even with a balding top he’s a gorgeous guy, but his ancestors in the Caucasus cursed him with a hairy chassis that no barber would dare approach. He’s got literally too much body hair to wax, clippers are like using a nose trimmer all over a bear, and his heavy-duty electric razor refuses to start on grounds of being overworked.
It’s not easy being Georgian. You can’t manscape with this guy. He’d need a daily professional groomer, but c’mon, that’d be weird. Laser hair removal is out of the question because the one clinic in town is run by his ex, and, well, that’s not a risk either of us are willing to take. He’s so hairy that taking off a shirt causes back pain, but bless his heart, he won’t ask me to shave his back or rub Nair all over – granted, that’s because the one time I tried to give his back a close shave the result was…less than flawless. But that’s neither here nor there.
I can’t save the world for anyone, but the least I can do is find a way to give my husband a little bit more of the elegance and confidence he wants. His birthday is coming up, and he’s craving this BAKblade thing. He likes the idea of the long handle, the razor extension, and the ergonomic grip, plus the top-notch replacement blades he’ll gladly use when the time comes.
It would be the ultimate present for him; I’m sure of it. I’d buy the ultimate back hair razor, the entire kit in full, and on his birthday I’d hide his present, and he wouldn’t be able to find it even after searching far and wide in the house, and right before he gives up I’d extend my hand and, with the most ridiculous Austrian accent, I’d offer:
“Come with me if you want a shave.”