Chapter VII
A quicker man would've stopped it.
Hell, even a half-paralyzed coke addict could've saved it! Instead, he just dumbly watched the razor plummet from his hand to the floor of the tub, the replaceable head ejecting from its fancy Mach 3 handle, both skittering towards the open drain. He even had time to reflect on how unwise it had been not to put the hair-trap in the drain,
even if it did make water drain too slowly, before the razor reached its inevitable target and disappeared forever. Thankfully the handle hadn't gone too, but he realized as he bent to pick it up that that was a ridiculous thought, because it was much too long to go down the drain, and he should've been more concerned about the razor part because it was so much smaller and because it was the more useful part of the whole contraption. And because it was his last one.
And he had been so proud to figure out that he could shave standing in the shower if he opened the medicine cabinet door so he could use its mirror. The only trick was finishing before it fogged up, but he'd solved that problem the week before by leaving the other end of the shower curtain open just a bit so steam could exit out the open bathroom door. He was a problem solver - should've been an engineer. If he were, you could bet Katrina wouldn't have overwhelmed the levies, and New Orleans would've been saved. Then, no one would criticize him for having such poor reflexes.
Straightening up, he looked in the mirror to see the damage. Not too bad - he'd managed to do his neck and half his face before the damned thing slipped from his hand. It's not like he had so much facial hair that he'd look like one of those half-man/half-woman things if he went out to buy some replacement cartridges. Still, he couldn't imagine facing the Target clerk with his stupid-looking face and the telltale razors sitting right fucking there on the scanner. She'd smirk and he'd watch her mentally filing it away so she could tell her co-workers in her broken English all about it at breaktime, and there'd be pantomimed gestures of him turning his head so only the unshaven part of his face showed, and they'd laugh and laugh and speculate on just how small his penis actually was... No, he'd have to come up with something better.
Of course the obvious answer was sitting on the rim of the tub next to him, but he'd rather avoid
that option if possible. Maybe he'd just call his girlfriend and ask her to pick up some razors on her way home from work. After all, he didn't have a job, so it wasn't absolutely necessary for him to leave the apartment. But then, she'd ask why, and when he told her, she'd tell him to stop being stupid and just use hers. The bitch!
That hateful option. He almost wished she didn't shave her stupid legs just so that her goddamn, flat, lavender Gillette wouldn't be sitting there staring him in his half-stubble!
Oh well, hot water was wasting. He grabbed his can of shaving cream and reapplied the white foam to the left side of his face. That done, he picked up the ridiculously-light, plasticky thing and scraped it across his cheek. Blood and pain immediately scored his face.
How the hell do they use these things? When he lifted it away from his mutilated skin, the moisture strip gagged its lotion and a thin contrail hung between face and razor like a drippy spider web. Lord how he missed the gentle kiss of triple, spring-loaded blades and swivel-headed action! This piece of shit was just a mockery of his beloved Mach 3
Turbo even though it was basically the girled-up version of it. But wait, NO, the stupid thing only had two blades! What demented mind decided women's razors should stay light years behind in technology??!!! Mankind now had razors with five blades. FIVE! Why would they even still make ones with two?
For the rest of the day, he wore the signs of his battle in little torn-off patches of toilet paper. He took no joy in the irony that the part of his face that smelled like a woman's sexy leg was also the stubbliest part of his body. When his girlfriend kissed him upon arriving home, she exclaimed, "Ooh, you shaved!" But he ignored her. He'd keep his ordeal a secret.
You see, over his recuperation during the past several hours, he'd had time to think: her legs had always been smooth yet scabless. Interesting. Perhaps she knew the wonders of the Mach 3
Turbo and only kept her Venus as a ruse of femininity. Well now they'd both have to use it, and he was prepared to go as long as she did without breaking. And he'd win. Oh yes, he'd win. What he lacked in reflexes and other physical prowess he more than made up for in cold, calculating patience.
"What's for dinner?" she asked as she put away her jacket.
"I decided to make a salad," he answered.
Eat it up, sweetcakes. You're going to need your strength...
