What’s more painful? Dragging a dulled piece of metal across your chiseled cheekbone, which is home to enough nerve endings to be considered an erogenous zone (or so I’m told)? Or shelling out absurd amounts of money at some depressing chain drug store for a box of low quality razors? As far as I’m concerned, it’s the latter, especially when you consider that – as of March 27, 2013 at 11:45 p.m. – a single box of Gillette’s top-of-the-line razor blades was retailing for $47.99.
That’s right -- $47.99! For the same price I could buy a Ribeye at Ruth's Chris or a 1-liter bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label (you know – “guy stuff”). Another $5 would get me a knit silk bow tie from Brooks Brothers.
The truth is, I hate buying razors! I find the entire experience indecent and humiliating from start to finish. Forget about the exorbitant pricing. How about the way razor companies incorporate goofy "G.I. Joe" verbiage into their packaging, creating odd combinations of meaningless phrasing in a thinly-veiled appeal to the adolescent portions of my brain, which, admittedly, remain firmly intact (i.e. “Fusion ProGlide” or “Mach3 Turbo”). Enough! Talk to me like a man, one who isn’t reliant upon the image of a streaking fighter jet to incite my purchasing power.
Heightening the indecency of the razor-procuring experience is the fact that the blades are usually locked behind bulletproof casing, forcing you to scour the store for an employee. Inevitably, said employee appears disgruntled, yet strangely sedate as they stack toilet paper in some distant corner of the building. Your request for razor blades, communicated mostly through crude gesticulation, incites a bureaucratic nightmare in which you both wander the store searching for a manager with the kind of top-level clearance necessary for unlocking the pricey razor blade cabinet. This rarely glimpsed figure is eventually ferreted out of a shadowy back room, where he was doing something utterly unimportant with an air of absolute importance. Your desire to give their store your money only serves to annoy them. By the time you make it to the counter your stubble has progressed to a full beard and you're nursing arsonistic revenge fantasies. Never again, you indignantly mumble, channeling your inner Milton from Office Space, never again.
Well, this time I’m sticking to that declaration. No more bulletproof casing! No more incompetent store managers with secret keys! No more overpriced, bad quality razors! Put simply:
"The hot tub is too hot! I'm not coming down anymore!" as Zach Galifianakis once screamed in an obscure Vodka commercial at pitched volume, drawing a line in the proverbial sand.
Over the next few weeks I’m going to explore my options, starting with this company, which I signed up for as soon as I got home last night. I tried to resist their bro-centric advertising campaign, but was ultimately charmed. Updates to come...