|
|
Copyright 2004 by N. Julius |
Once Bitten, Twice Shaved Continued My mother showed me how to use the razor, the different blades and trimmers. She showed me how to clean it off and which parts could be rinsed in the sink. She told me I could shave my legs as well, if I wanted to. I hated it. I didn't like how the razor left a little bit of stubble, black and coarse. I hated how it felt against my skin. Eventually, I graduated to proper safety razors, but I hated them even more. I hated accidentally cutting myself and having to dot my legs with little blood-stained bits of tissue paper. Above all else, I thought it was a waste of time. I'm a brunette; no one's ever going to look at me and think, “now that's a hair-free woman.” I stopped shaving my legs at 15. By 17 I wasn't shaving anything. I didn't grow to be six-foot-two, nor did I physically assault anyone. But I did decide that it wasn't worth it to make myself uncomfortable so a few narrow minded people would like me better. As you can probably guess, I've been looking forward to the shaving portion of this project about as much as a small child looks forward to having a tooth filled. Amazingly, I found that not much has changed since my high school days in the world of disposable razors. Sure, they've dressed a few up models with “extra moisturizing strips” and “comfort handles,” but what in the world does that solve? Honestly now, when I'm taking a pair of small knives to my legs, the last thing I'm worried about is a hand cramp. When you take away all the bells and whistles, you're still taking a hand held weapon and assaulting yourself with it.
|