On my random wanderings yesterday evening I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation being had by two excessively loud guys. They were discussing – of all things – shaving. Now I only bring it up because of my deep knowledge and broad experience on the subject. But they were discussing the Mach 3 razor – a sleek little machine of which I recently puchased my second copy. It now comes in a cerulean blue-ish tone and I needed an upgrade anyhow.
As it was, these two loud guys were discussing the cost of these machines: if you work out the price, the best you can hope for is about $1.50 to $2 per blade. They are sold in packs of 4 or eight, so ususally this sets you back about ten or twenty dollars. I justify this because I change the blades about as often as I organize my sock drawer: as in every three months, give or take a month. Now perhaps it is just me and my genetically determined lack of excessive facial hair, but this seems about right and I can get away with it without dulling the blade too much.
The one guy says: “I don’t know. Them blades are too expensive. I tried ’em and I was payin’ almost 10 bucks a week – jus’ta shave.”
The other responds: “Well you gotta use’m more than once or twice. I can get nearly four shaves from a blade ‘fore it goes dull on me.”
Perhaps I’m a cinical shopper and won’t throw away something until it is beyond useless, but four shaves! I mean, what are you shaving? Your whole body?
Alas, I don’t think I will ever know – or want to know for that matter.
For now, I am twiddling away my Saturday on projects yet to be determined. Still so much to do, and the clock is ever ticking downwards…
Someone’s car alarm was bellowing in the distance.
The rain trickles down my window, reminding me that this place used to be a rainforest – now it is a raincity.
I see a flag at half-mast. I suppose it is some sort of royal tribute.
And I notice that my plants need water: Ayech too Oh. Poor plants: I am just too neglectful sometimes.
I was reading another couple of books last night: first, I was yet again engrossed in a weird tale called A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. And it is – sort of. Second, I picked up a random Narnia story and plucked through it before I curled off to sleep. I have them all memorized from listening to the BBC radio plays so often.
I should do something productive: I should clean my apartment. I should go out and see an interesting sight. I should not be sitting here, doing this. Now I am just writing – for the sake of writing – not actually caring what types of words I type. Type I type. type I type. typeyetype. typeyetypeyetype.
My mind is numb. I want a slush, but it’s too cold and I’m too lazy: and slushses are bad for me.