24 October 2006
16 i've got a gun... give me your razors!
we live in dangerous times. dangerous and silly times. an era where one must remove flip flops for airport security. an age when spinach is quarantined. an epoch in which jessica simpson's hairstylist is a household name. a time when razors are not an over-the-counter commodity.
in my little world, razors are in a glass case. as though gillette were a status symbol. as though the venus were on par with an ipod and wasn't just a 50 cent piece of plastic with a $2 blade and a $5 mark-up. thus, the simple task of buying a razor or blades involves a salesperson, an intercom, a key-carrying salesperson, a lock, and a blushing oline. the blushing oline resents this.
consequently, i demand my blades be all they can be. i've pushed the latest one to the very brink of its livelihood. the strip of lotion has long since worn away, the razor head has irrevocably warped, the grippy thing has molted off, somewhere along the way a blade fell out, and the bath has been the scene of a near-daily blood-letting ever since. today, it became obvious that i would either have to buy an entirely new razor or try to make do with a butter knife. at last, i gave in.
i asked margarita for assistance and stood in aisle 3 as the page went out for "ASSistance in razors." i calculated the odds that the key-carrying salesperson would be named martini. when marco came to give me ASSistance, it took all my willpower to keep from shouting POLO! clearly, i am not meant to be in public alone.
marco reverently removed the razor toward which i had gestured. he touched it gingerly, as though we were standing in elizabeth taylor's jewelry box and he was handing over the krupp diamond. he seemed mildly embarrassed that he hadn't thought to don kid gloves.
at the checkout, margarita handled my razor as though it were a loaded gun. she bagged it separately, lest it contaminate the conditioner and Our Gum. a tense pause followed. a moment in which there was a 48% chance i would be carded.
i wanted to wave my razor in the air and scream.
this is a razor, not illicit drugs. i am not after crack or antihistamines. i just want to shave my legs and that really shouldn't be so hard. the condoms are just sitting there for the taking. they're practically shouting at people to pocket them. steal me and go have safe sex, they say. i just want a damn razor. i just want to shave my damn legs. in these dangerous and silly times, no one has asked that most pressing of questions: what of a woman's right to a razor?