Razor Burn

 Tried to buy some new razorblades, but when I got to Boots I found Gillette had decided to shake the tree a bit. It's been a couple of months since I last bought razorblades, and the shaving world has turned on its axis, leaving me behind. My usual blade was nowhere to be seen. Instead, like the tubby Pantone Daleks that no one liked, it had been replaced by a "sensitive" blue-bibbed blade, and an orange bibbed one, which I can only assume denoted a "tangy cheese" or "nice 'n' spicy" quality. I took both to the counter. Unusually, there was a man with a suit standing there. My kingdom for a woman in a white lab coat.  

"Hi," I said. 

"Yes?" he replied, which not the same as "hi". We get to business. 

"I don't recognise these blades. Will they fit a standard Gillette handle?" 

He looks at them. 

"Well, they're made by Gillette, so..."

"So...they will?"

"I expect so."

I eye him suspiciously. I've been burned before. Gillette are as protean and mutable as David Bowie in the 1970's. It's like trying get a shave off Tam Lin when the Faerie Queen's got him on spin cycle. They like to, what I imagine they enjoy calling, innovate. Their built-in-obsolescence sees the razor's handle wilting in your hand like maudlin rhubarb mid-shave. However, the man works here, he's wearing a suit and he's smiling, and when did a smiling man in a suit ever tell a lie? 

I buy the orange ones. They're insanely expensive. I also buy moisturiser and deodorant. I like to be clean. I like to smell pleasant. I like to have shiny hair. I naturally offend on so many levels, so I try and reign in the stench, and the pachydermis, and grizzled jowls. It's damage limitation. I'm not a man who can wear designer stubble. On day three, I look homeless. By day six I'm Captain Birdseye. After a week, it's Uncle Albert. Like Oasis, I'm chained to the mirror and the razor blade - for slightly different reasons - otherwise it's some variant on the Ancient Mariner. So, I shave. And it's expensive. 

The razor blades were not compatible with my existing handle. Cleverly, in order to find this out you have to completely destroy the packaging, so you can't return it. The handle no longer speaks to the razor blade. They are the genitals of alien species. I take the blades back to the shop. Suit guy is nowhere to be seen. Did he even work there? I speak to a woman behind the counter. She wears a white coat. Better. 

"Hello,"

"Hello,"

"I bought some razor blades here about half an hour ago. And now I need a handle to use with them."

"Yes, you do."

"I mean, I already had a handle, but it's now the wrong handle. Now I need the right handle." 

She looks slightly alarmed. 

"Okay."

"Okay. But I don't know which one. Which handle. Do you know anything about shaving?"

Our eyes meet. 

"Of course, you don't. Why would you? My God. Stupid thing to say."

She laughs. Phew. She escorts me to the shaving area and we stare at the various products, hanging from their peculiar trombone-slide hooks. We ignore the Harry's stuff because it's shit. There are two new handles there, in boxes. Blue and orange. I whip out my previously bought blades. 

"Would these fit with these?" 

She laughs again. She thinks I'm fun. This doesn't happen very often. She examines both my blades and proffers a packet. 

"I think this one is for you." She hands me the orange one. It's bigger, more rubbery than the one I have at home. It's more macho, somehow. There's a grip. Is this the sports model? Am I purchasing a Gillette Ghia? 

It comes with another five blades. That's ten I've got now. I think of something to say as we walk back to the till. 

"I've got ten razor blades now," I say, as I'm paying. "I'm not sure a responsible pharmacist should be selling me this many razor blades in one go."

"Why's that?" she says. No longer smiling. 

"I might be depressed." I say. 

"What do you mean?"

"Like aspirins. Your not allowed to sell aspirins, are you? Suicide. You know, razor blades..."

"Yes, but you'd only need one razor blade, so we can't monitor that. Besides these are safety razors, so it wouldn't work, would it?" This delivered with diction you might describe as al dente. 

I agree that that best I could manage would be to shave my wrists, and I leave, having failed to make a new friend and discovered another shop I will never return to. 

I've not tried the razors yet. On anything and I think I spent over twenty quid on shaving accessories. 

I wish I suited a beard.