I’ve spoken on this topic before but it’s been a long time so I’m going to bring it up again. There is no reason on God’s green earth that a razor has to have more than, at most, two blades, to shave a lady’s legs or underarms adequately.
Today’s razors with their three, four or five blades and that special ridiculous strip of Aloe on the top are the most dangerous tools of beauty since the original tweezer was invented — or perhaps going back to the curling iron…the one they actually put in the fire to heat up.
I mention this because I am in the painful process of attending physical therapy three times a week. Frankly, even with the imminent arrival of shorts-wearing weather, I am not one to shave my legs on an every other day basis – certainly not daily — heck we’re lucky to get that hair off there once a week. Why, you ask? Because anyone who is looking that closely at my legs deserves to see what they see. A little stubble doesn’t bother me. It’s not like I have embraced the totally natural look of Mo’Nique who simply refuses to shave her legs at all. I still have a problem with completely unshaven hairy gladiator legs peeking out from under stylish shorts or capris.
So prior to my physical therapy session the other day (which is given by Samantha this time, not my precious, cute Agador — and yes, I also adore Sam!), I dutifully went to the bathroom, retrieved the razor from the closet, sat down on the edge of the tub and began the chore of shaving my legs. (And for those of you wondering…no you may NOT wear jeans to physical therapy – you must wear some type of sports fashion — I lean toward a longer lightweight sport pant much like yoga pants only not as long as yoga pants and not quite as short as biker spandex but made of the same type of material just not as clingy) Therefore, shaving is de rigueur. I don’t think it’s nice to make my physical therapist grab stubbly, prickly, hairy extremities if she doesn’t have to.
Anyway…back to the tub we go. Hot water, washcloth, soak first leg to soften, apply liberal amount of shaving cream and taking razor in left hand I made the first swipe up my leg. Unfortunately when I reached my knee EmmaLou, the Golden Destroyer, came bounding in to the bathroom to see what I was doing. I was distracted, jumped, and as I jumped the razor slipped sideways thus forcing all FIVE flippin’ blades to come into contact with my skin resulting in a cut the likes of which I thought would require a tourniquet. (Now I should explain that I usually use a two-bladed razor but for some reason known only to God and Target the last time I picked up razors I ended up with a package of men’s Fusion razors and they do indeed have FIVE blades.)
It bled. It bled. It bled. I continued to shave. Shave a little, press the washcloth against the cut to keep the blood from running down my leg. Shave a little, repeat the washcloth routine. Then on to the other leg while simultaneously holding washcloth against first leg which was still bleeding out pints of my life into the bathtub.
The moral of the story is that more is not always good. I will never use that razor again because the next time I might die from loss of blood. And I will pay closer attention at Target to the razor section to ensure I buy plain old Bic two-bladed ladies’ razors.
Oh…the final indignity of it all? I could not get the bleeding to stop and was reduced to using Devoted Spouse’s styptic pencil and I KNEW AT THAT MOMENT THE TRUE DEFINITION OF PAIN. Pain is not childbirth. Pain is not a herniated disk. Pain is not a dislocated shoulder or a broken vertebra. Pain is not the passing of the “watermelon out your derrierre” from being constipated by taking two months’ worth of Percocet. No, friends, true pain is derived through the use of a styptic pencil on an open wound. Now I understand why Devoted Spouse does not like to shave. The things I endure for my physical therapist…oh nevermind. sigh…