Tuesday, 26 April 2016

When the Good Times Stop

I haven’t bought razor blades for over a year. It’s not that I’m a hipster or anything as exotic as that, but because I don't shave every day, the three-month subscription of blades that I won just before Christmas 2014 lasted for way longer than the promoter anticipated. Certainly way longer than the promoter could be bothered to update their social media channels.


Buying razor blades, I'm guessing, is a bit like buying stockings or tampons. It's a tax on gender. How much pleasure do you get from spending that money? None. These things should on tap. Instead, we have to pay over the odds for such essentials because their marketing teams are giddily spunking corporate dollars carpet bombing the countryside with menstruating women and trying to convince grizzly idiots that wiping their face with a sixteen-blade testosterone wand will make them look like David Beckham. Sometimes communism doesn't sound so bad.

But this is no time to debate the merits of the free market system. My smooth-face free-roll is coming to an end. At best, I have two free shaves left before I’m back to the antique face cleaver I cached in my washbag some fifteen months ago (it has two blades - TWO!). Which is to say, I obviously could just buy some blades designed after 1993, but I am so mean that I will literally cut off my face to spite my face.

In other words, I’ve got four days to win a new razor. #compersproblems

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