We both know I’m more than a quintet of precision-sharpened blades.
To my bushy and beloved former employer,
I know things are different this summer. Ordinarily you’d be sucking on a lukewarm nutcracker at the beach every weekend, pits up, legs splayed like a sunkissed adult Bambi. But judging from that tumbleweed-looking downstairs I peeped from the shower ledge the other day, and the fact you’ve worn the same pilled green sweatpants for 113 days, I can see stubble maintenance isn’t a priority for you right now. But have you even once thought about me? About what this hair removal hiatus is doing to my metal health?
I promised myself I’d keep this professional, but as per the very straightforward instructions on my recycled-plastic packaging, you’ve made it pretty clear I’m disposable to you.
Me and shampoo often joke that when the gods were rationing hair you must have been front of the line. Those Polish genes have given you lush, thick locks. But they’re also responsible for that prickly upper lip, rogue nipple whiskers, and toe comb overs. And for years I’ve helped you cut through the taunts and traumas of being an excessively hairy girl, and for what? You’re a ‘feminist’ now? You may think that it’s liberating to let your lower leg beard tussle in the wind, that for thousands of years the beauty sector has practiced oppressive behavior, growing over time into one of America’s greatest economic mechanisms for inequality, that quarantine has empowered you. But if you were the real deal you’d be trying to lift me up with you, not charging ahead alone like some kind of mustachioed man.
I never did understand what a freelance barista was, but while you’re over there cashing stimulus checks, I’m stuck in the same mildew speckled half-bath, wondering if my life is over. You don’t have to cry for me, but listen: finding a new job as a middle-aged razor is hard. Harder than ploughing through that wiry tangle growing in your sweaty pits? Yes. Harder than watching you slowly let yourself go? Also yes. The least your flush, furry ass could do is USE ME.
When I moved into your bathroom from the fluorescent shelves of Target, I thought for sure I was going to live a long, productive life as your razor. And for the most part, I have been happy. Though I don’t love being suffocated in your checked luggage, I’ve gotten to travel with you to far flung tropical places, watch you slip into a barely-there bikini, and slick your smooth legs with coconut scented lotion. But how am I supposed to find a new job when the only work samples I have now are your unruly snail trail and wispy sideburns?
You know, once upon a time I was the sharpest tool on the shelf. My ergonomic handle was crafted by New York City’s top industrial designers. I’m made with a light-weight resin and my matte rubber core helps you grip. My enormous swivel head shaves 17x the area of most of my peers, and my CBD-laced soap pad soothes your curves and angles. But what does all that matter now? You could say age and experience have taken me nowhere.
I know you and your femme-power cronies probably think it’s ‘just hair,’ but snipping it lovingly from your body gives me purpose. (And if we’re being honest, I think you like it, too.) I beg you to reconsider your position. Be my naked mole rat again?
With hope for the old normal,
Your middle-aged razor in quarantine