"Prices slashed" claimed the pharmacy notice attached to a display of heavy-duty disposable razors featuring triple-bladed ultra cutting action for the closest of shaves.
Prices wouldn't be the only thing slashed, I thought, if I shaved with those fearsome objects: my face, for instance, would surely be reduced to a bloody mess of red stripes. The image of a barbershop pole with two eyes and a nose stuck on came to mind; a bathroom sink overflowing with a scarlet tide of gory shaving foam.
Not for me, then. The purveyors of such medieval grooming supplies could keep their discount coupons, final reductions, and unbeatable value. I don't want to walk around town looking like I've just undergone a primitive tribal scarring ceremony or a Prussian duel with swords.
Normally, I use a fancy electric shaver on my face. It rubs a little at times but never rips hunks of flesh from my chin like an insatiable robot zombie. For something that's sole function is to cut, it's a lover, not a fighter. I think of it as a facial lawnmower languidly buzzing away on a summer morning, taking the occasional break for a sip of refreshing lemonade in the shade.
The problem is that replacement blades for my electric razor, although kind and gentle, are more expensive than simply buying an entirely brand new razor with a fresh blade already attached. Thus, despite boasting a lifetime warranty, my nonviolent electric shaver is, economically at least, as disposable as the vicious plastic razors sold in packs of three.
So I guess my options are prices slashed, face slashed, and commonsense slashed. Slash and burn. Apparently, everything must go if my five o'clock shadow is to go. This is why I contemplate growing a beard, it's the only sane response.