On loss and stubble

This week marked the end of an era.

For more than 30 years I have been shaving with a Gillette Sensor razor. The same Gillette Sensor razor. That all came to a sudden and tragic end the evening of April 7.

While removing my toothbrush from the cabinet, my finger caught on the underside of the blade, flinging it skyward. When it landed on the tile floor of the bathroom, one of the two tiny, movable arms that held the blade succumbed to the forces of gravity and age and separated from the body of the razor.

I was stunned. I stood over my now useless razor contemplating my uncertain future. All I could utter was “Oh no.”

Carla, who was getting ready for bed, offered the kind of sympathy only a spouse of nearly 27 years can provide. Her mouth full of toothpaste, she gargled out, “That’s too bad.”

The understatement of our 24-year millennium, if you ask me.

I began shaving with Gillette Sensor while in college. I had brought the electric razor I had been using in high school with me but seeing the efficacy and smoothness regular razors offered, I grew disaffected with the face-chewing and breakout-inducing electric and invested in a new form of shaving equipment.

This was before the escalating razor wars, and the trusty Gillette Sensor only had two blades. They were precious plenty, and I enjoyed comfortable, close shaves from the outset. True to their advertising jingle at the time, Gillette was the best a man could get. (Confession: I may have watched this multiple times in preparing this post. It is, without a doubt, the greatest ad for middle aged dudes of all time.)

The loss of my Gillette Sensor has set off a bit of a personal crisis. If I’ve been using the best a man could get for 30 years, how can I suddenly switch to an inferior product?

I admit I could have rectified this situation on the day it happened by going to one of three conveniently located grocery stores minutes from my home and buying any number of five-bladed razors adorning the shelves. Or I could have signed up for one of those shave clubs online that sends you new disposable blades once a month.

But as a friend told me this week, “You are sounding more and more like Andy Rooney all the time.” I couldn’t give in to modernity. I couldn’t trust my face to some new fangled device with more blades than a Cuisinart food processor. These rugged good looks have been my ticket to fame and fortune. The Gillette Sensor has been with me through thick-and-thin. It outlasted that weird goatee phase in the early ‘90s. It survived numerous beach vacations during which I let my patchy beard grow in making passersby think I had mange. It even outlasted my pandemic lockdown beard that turned out to be mostly gray and aged me by 11 years and three months.

I have a relationship with this razor. I am not the kind of person who just gives up on a reliable friend after 30 years.

My investment in the Gillette Sensor goes beyond emotional attachment. I’ve got real money on the line here. I bought a 10-pack of replacement blade cartridges last year, and I still have four left. I am not about to throw those away. That would be wasting at least $7.43 worth of prime shaving equipment. With my 10-week blade replacement schedule, I’m not due for another change out until Saturday, June 1. (Yes, this is true. Don’t doubt my systems.)

I immediately went to Amazon and found a Gillette Sensor body and ordered it. Only after making my one-click purchase did I see the delivery date was April 18, not April 8 as I had originally thought. Evidently I’m getting blind and cranky as I descend into Andy Rooneyness.

While I grieve the loss of one of my oldest possessions, I am suffering the added indignity of shaving with one of Carla’s spare Venus razors. After a week of using this oddly curved device, I will confess that while technically it’s the same tool, a razor for ladies is not the same.

They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. It’s so painfully true. As I have tried to maneuver the pink monstrosity over my chin and down my throat, I miss my Sensor. True, I will have a new Sensor body in another five days, but how much blood will be spilled in the meantime?

This is what we’re dealing with out here in the New South. I just thought I’d let you know in case you want to send me a sympathy card, bring me a casserole or add me to the prayer list under “Condolences.” This is a difficult time, but I will persevere.

What does not kill me, makes me smoother.