The Razor's Edge...

I had a good run this morning.


The endorphins flowed early. I felt relaxed and refreshed when I finished. I couldn’t, however, have prepared myself for my wife’s heinous act of marital treason.

She used my newest razor to shave her legs.

The hot water felt good. I lathered up taking great care to cover every inch of my stubbly neck and face. My first warning something had gone awry was finding the razor on the bathtub ledge beside the soap and loofah or whatever that thing women exfoliate with is called.

She didn’t-not my shiny, sharp, never touched an epidermis before razor?

Oh yes… she did.

Trying to shave my beard with that thing reminded me of trying to slice a tomato with a butter knife…or maybe even trying to cut butter with a butter knife. As my Alabama brethren would say, my face looked like I “shaved through a screen door.”

Isn’t it bad enough that we have to take a sharp edged blade and cut hair from our face so whiskers don’t scrape the woman we pledged to forsake all others for? It's so dangerously close to our eyes, lips, and carotid artery for crying out loud. One wrong slip and you would have the whole bathroom to yourself until the new husband moves in. But then, add a significant other, surreptitiously christening a new shaving utensil in a brazen act of eminent domain, and you have the not so merciful coup de grace.

It’s just not fair.

I know; I know; women are from Venus and well men…men are from Mars/Hell. But I did some research this morning. Wives may be correct to attribute ¾ (or all) of the dirt and grime in a bathroom to the man’s use thereof, but ¾ (make that all) of the space in a bathroom is controlled by the fairer of the two.

I mean, what is all that stuff in the cabinets used for anyway? Talk about oil spills. We have a disaster waiting in our powder room. I found tea tree oil, sweet oil, fresh and fruity x-virgin olive oil, and some other oil looking liquid/solid whose label I couldn’t read. That doesn’t even account for whatever all that other stuff is that I was too lazy to inspect.

Our bathroom looks like the old counter from the Sears and Roebuck women’s department.

During my investigation I did see an interesting bottle that seemed to have an identity crisis. It looked like some sort of cream, but the tag said warm vanilla sugar hand soap with green tea extract and shea butter. I didn’t know whether to eat it, drink it, or rub it on my newly formed facial abrasions.

It’s like corporate American got in an ingredient war.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife’s silky smooth legs and young looking appearance. In fact, she still revs my engine after twenty three years of knowing her and the three children she bore. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-nine and I wouldn’t care if she did anyway. And, I don’t mind sharing anything with her. She learned that early in our relationship when she never would order any food or drink, but would always eat or sip mine.

But, can’t a guy have his own razor? Can’t we keep one last frontier free from female exploration?

I’ll keep loving my wife even if she dulls my edges with her legs and other what nots. She’s still the greatest thing to me since sliced bread….with butter on it. But, Father’s Day is coming up and I think I’ve discovered a great gift idea.

I’m a simple-minded man…just buy me a new bag of disposable razors.

And, don’t go near them…

images courtesy of photobucket.com