I finally switched from an electric shaver to a razor.
It came purely out of convenience. When I got back from Niceville in September, I was stunned to find out that I had actually remembered to bring the charger for my shaver back with me. I am always terrified I will forget it in the hotel. Alas, I did not. It made it back with me to West Palm.
I promptly threw it away.
During my rampage through the closet, cleaning out every box, bag and scrap I could find, the charger for my shaver managed to creep inside a garbage bag and lurk. I don’t know when it happened, and I don’t know for sure that it went down like that, but anecdotal evidence suggests it.
Nevertheless, upon this discovery, my shaver was living on borrowed time.
Each day, I would shimmy quietly into the bathroom, and stare at the shaver. It would stare back at me, unknowing, ever the trusting appliance. If only it had known the fate that it would soon meet.
I would pick it up and cautiously trim, only cutting exactly what needed to be cut, only running it for the precise length of time I deemed necessary. Of course, I knew this couldn’t last forever. But I had to make it last as long as I could while I continued searching in vein for the missing charger.
A week passed. Then another. Finally, the fear of shaver death loomed so large that I shirked my shaving duties completely, letting scraggly, reddish-brown hairs grow every which way all over my face. Soon, though, that too became unbearable.
It was time for the shaver to receive its last rites.
I decided one night that I would enjoy one final shave with her before laying her to rest. I turned it on, and started to work. Slowly I shaved the right side of my face, nervously studying the process in the mirror, knowing that I must be ever vigilant of total shaver failure.
Then, suddenly, it happened. The shaver stopped. Dead. With only half of my face shaved.
This did not bode well.
I frantically searched the house for the charger. Surely, I had only misplaced it. I couldn’t have possibly thrown away the charger for my eighty dollar electric shaver. The one I can’t afford to replace right now. Nobody is that stupid. Especially not me.
Fifteen minutes of searching proved that I am indeed that stupid.
I sauntered out into the living room and crashed into the couch. My focus shifted around the room, finally settling on the keys to my car on the table in front of me.
I had to go buy a razor.
I picked up the keys and dejectedly headed down towards the car. Every person I saw was another set of eyes gazing at my ridiculous half-shave. They were all looking at me, I knew they were. I didn’t really know they were, because I wouldn’t even look up. But, why wouldn’t they be? I don’t care who you are. Everybody has time to stop and stare at the freak.
The back alley linking our street to the corner store looked mighty appealing. I took it, and made off like a bandit down the dark, single car width street. I knew that this had to be quick.
I dashed into the store. The automatic doors barely opened fast enough, but my advance would not be abated by glass and plastic barriers. I was a man possessed. Skirting hurriedly from aisle to aisle, I glanced at each sign dangling from the ceiling, looking for any sign of razors, shavers, or plastic butter knives that could be used to scrape each hair from my face.
Nothing. I couldn’t find anything!
“This is a drug store,” I told myself. “There’s no way they don’t have razors. That’s such a common thing to need.” And yet, I couldn’t find them. I couldn’t even find evidence of a past civilization of razors, once at the peak of its existence, and destroyed by the razors’ own hubris.
There was no chance I was going to ask for help.
Finally, I realized that I had sprinted right past them on my way into the store, before I’d ever started looking. I made my way back to them and snatched the first one I saw that I recognized.
Someone had ripped the back open and stolen the blades.
I went to get another one of the same kind. No more. Sold out.
I decide to upsell myself and get the four-bladed model. Why not? If three blades is good, why wouldn’t four blades be better? It took them years, but their marketing dollars finally got to me. I stuffed the razor and an extra pack of blades into my hand and bolted for check-out.
A line. Yes!
I knew that old woman standing in line behind me would be an annoyance. I made sure not to make eye contact, but I could see her looking at me. I stared at my feet and shuffled along in what might have been the longest, slowest moving drug store line I’d ever been in. The candy and knick-knack end cap did its magic, and more marketing dollars paid off as my pile increased in size to include a pack of gum and some chocolates. My face started to burn. It suffered from a lack of razor. Its only salvation was the four-bladed heroin that lay on the counter, between breath fresheners and caffeinated sugar cubes cut round.
The receipt printer on the cash register broke.
At that point, I requested forgiveness from the Lord for writing Selling The Faith, and informed Him that I realized this was punishment for that sin.
We all had to move to another register. I picked up my bundle of things and shifted it to the other side of the aisle, while the slowest cashier ever employed by this drug store lazily strolled over to it.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally got to pay for my razor and candies, and get the hell out of there. This was shortly before I intended to rip the razor package open right there on the counter, attach the free blade to its handle, and use it to slice my throat open. Clean-up on aisle four.
When I arrived at home, I realized that I had forgotten the requisite after shave, but this no longer concerned me. I was working on a time table here, and I needed that hair to come off of my face. I had to finish the job that my fallen electric shaver had started, if only for her sake. Her memory had to be honored.
Shaving with a manual razor is not something I’ve done before, so it took me approximately nine years to do it. It was by far the closest shave I’ve ever had. While my electric shaver has served me well, I believe it’s time for that legacy to end, and a new one to begin.
Now is the time of the manual razor.
The electric shaver is dead. Long live the electric shaver.
Tags: Harrowing Tales