An Open Letter to My Razor
We go back a long way, you and me. We’ve gotten together a few times a week since 8th grade, although according to some of the girls in my class I should have become acquainted with you at least a year earlier. On the whole, our relationship has been delightfully smooth (see what I did there?), but there’s something we need to discuss, something that hasn’t changed in the past 13 years and is making it hard for me to trust you…
Nine times out of ten, I shave my legs without incident, but then sometimes, when I least expect it, it’s a freakin’ bloodbath. What’s up with that, Razor?
I’ve pondered this phenomenon for years and can’t settle on a reasonable explanation. It doesn’t happen when I switch shaving creams or brands of razors. I’ve shaved my legs thousands of times–my technique is as steady and honed as a veteran heart surgeon. What is it exactly that causes my normally docile razor to pull a Buffalo Bill?
Is it my feminist subconscious lashing out at me for subscribing so ardently to socially dictated gender norms? Or is it you, Razor?
I wonder if you suffer from severe mood swings. Perhaps you’re resentful about all the times you’ve been confiscated at the airport. Maybe the suction cup razor holder that came in your package isn’t comfortable and you’d rather I upgrade to a stainless steel model from Brookstone. Maybe you were unduly inspired by season one of Dexter (I had a crush on the Ice Truck Killer too). Whatever the issue, Razor, surely there’s a more mature way to resolve it than attempting to fillet my legs.
I’d really like to work things out. I mean, I only have so much blood to lose.