Papercuts.
Never do I have fewer than 10 on my hands at any given time. Most are superficial, just a few layers of derma, and sting only if I rinse my hands with astringent. Some, however, are quite nasty. I sliced the top of my right index finger's knuckle yesterday with file cardstock, and by trying to compensate for that minor irritating injury, I sliced the soft skin between my pinkie and ring fingers on my left hand this morning. It was such a sharp slice I didn't notice until I saw the blood on the file. Yeah, I know. Yuck.

Ever notice how people who deliver the mail always wear a ton of perfume or cologne? UPS deliverers, FedEx guys, your friendly neighborhood mailman. Well, it's because mail smells.

One of my duties is to open the mail, which on a busy day can include 300 envelopes. Not really high volume, but enough to occupy an hour at least. An hour of smelling strangers. Sometimes, but only very rarely, does a piece of mail smell good, like cinnamon, or baby powder, or pipe tobacco. An hour of smelling fried chicken, or dogs, or rot, or cigarette smoke, or mildew, or fish, or shit, or cloying, cheap perfume. I have learned to breathe softly.
I have learned to wash my hands 20 times a day.
Papercuts.