Eulogy for a Razor

Today, after the eighth day of service, I retired my uber razor, the Fusion. After a slow, smooth shave, numerous rinsings and final "shake dry", I laid the razor to rest. Never more will the inordinate number of blades glide across the skin of my face, nipping tiny hairs as it traverses the path to good grooming.

I'm thinking that I may encase this, my favorite razor, in glass as it lays in state on our bathroom counter. Like Lenin and Mao, mummified in vacuum pack for the world to trek by and view on a pilgrimage.

One day, when the normal number of blades exceeds the number of fingers on a hand, a grandson will turn to his grandfather as they pass my shrine to the Fusion and ask, "Gramps, did people really used to shave with only two blades per razor? Did it take them, like, all day?"

On second thought, I'll likely toss the dangerous part and keep the handle in a drawer until the price of a six-bladed razor refill drops to the price of a barrel of crude oil.

Goodbye, fair Fusion. It was nice while it lasted.