My Razor is Evil

Personal Touch Razor Evil

OK, I was shaving in the shower, as I am prone to do when my leg hair begins to scuff the living room furniture. And I used my trusty Personal Touch razor, the same one I've been using for the last 26 years, natch. Just as an FYI, that's as old as my marriage, and I often wonder which will last longer: the razor or the Hubs. But anyhoots, the blades on the razor are new...well, new enough to do the job, but not so new that I should have to worry about nicking a vein or something in the process.

So imagine my profanity-ridden astonishment when I'm finishing the first leg, only to look down and see blood running down my leg. Now I must point out that I am extremely nearsighted, and I am too cheap and afraid well adjusted to be bothered with contact lenses, so I wear glasses, which obviously I must remove before taking a shower. So to say that I can see blood running down my leg, you have to realize that it is I'm seeing; not a  blurry pinkish hue that could easily be written off as soap residue. We're talking real blood here, people. And I hate blood, especially  my own, and especially in my nice, clean shower!

Surprisingly though, I feel no pain past the initial nick. You know the pain I'm talking about, ladies...that acid-like burn you can only get when you nick yourself while shaving. The one that makes you want to scream bloody murder even when plain water pours across the slit that is so tiny it would likely require a magnifying glass to see it.  The one that makes childbirth seem like a walk in the park in comparison.  Yeah, didn't have that.  Had lots of blood, but pain? Not so much. So I decided to just continue on and get finished, since there was an In Touch magazine on the couch with my name on it.

And then. It happens. Again.

And this time, there is pain. So any cuss words I missed during the first nicking I made sure I hit this time. I think I may have invented a few new ones too. And I'm thinking to myself, what just happened here? How did I just manage to nick myself not once, but twice? And while I pondered this pointless but still nagging question through the blinding, unbelievable, burning and exaggerated pain, it hits me.

My razor is EVIL.

What other explanation can there be for the deliberate and localized attack on my well-lathered lower extremities? Clearly that razor is evil, or at the very least it was momentarily possessed by some sadistic spirit with an axe to grind against large, naked, nearsighted grandmas who shave in the shower.

Or, um, maybe I was just in a hurry.

You decide.