For reasons unknown (genetic lottery? Faustian pact?), I have really nice hands. I always have. And it’s something I can brag about, due to the sheer randomness of this particular esthetic. Not long ago, Rob Lowe was derided for lamenting the hardships attractive folks like him can experience. Somebody making similar claims about their above average hands wouldn’t have faced such umbrage. Folks would have simply said, “Oh, like George Costanza in that Seinfeld episode — how adorable!” and gone about their day.
So what makes my hands so badass? Man, where to begin. Even skin tone. Symmetrical nails. (And kickin’ nailbeds!) No age spots, hair, or bulging veins. And despite me being nestled in my mid-40s, these suckers look like the hands of a 22-year-old. Scratch that: a 22-year-old with awesome freakin’ hands. Check out this crazy biz:
I know, right? Your accolades are appreciated.
A couple of years back, a friend of mine revealed that in addition to his work as an actor, he was nabbing the occasional hand modelling gig. My response to his admission was ambivalence. Part of me was thrilled he could rely on this supplemental income. But the other, more selfish part of me was nonplussed. “Dude!” I thought, but most certainly didn’t verbalize, “Your hands are utter garbage compared to mine. You have garbage hands!”
And yet there he was, being handsomely paid for his Salieri meat-hooks, while I, the Mozart of forearm appendages, was toiling away in obscurity.
What relegated me to this cruel, ironic fate? Settle in, because the tale is one of woe, my friends. In June of 1993, at the tender age of 21, I was the victim of a dog bite. I say “victim” due to the dramatic aftermath of this two-pronged puncture wound:
- 10 stitches to my right hand.
- The area quickly became infected, leading to a week in the hospital and three subsequent weeks of at-home IV antibiotics.
- The hospital stay prevented me from attending my brother’s high school graduation, a bestie’s wedding, and a concert from my favorite band.
- I couldn’t sue anyone, since it was my freakin’ dog.
Worst of all, the injury left two permanent scars on my right hand. Noticeable to the unassuming layperson? Not particularly. But to an eagle-eyed hand model casting agent (an actual profession, I’m assuming), they’re sheer kryptonite.
As such, I’m relegated to the sidelines as a hand modelling never-was, while my less ‘endowed’ buddy continues to take the industry by storm. To quote Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront, “I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am… He gets the title shot outdoors on the ballpark and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palooka-ville!”
Okay, that quote hasn’t aged very well, but you take my point. Ah, the fame and fortune that could have been. The hands of fate can be a callous pair of mistresses, no?
Post script to my friend: waxing, dude. Look into it.
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