What Five Blades Can Do That Three Can’t

We text about the silly things, making mundane affairs matter. In a fit of feminism and badassery, I made the switch to men’s razors this Sunday. I know, I’m always late to the trendy party. I announced the switch to my friend, who, for the purpose of this post, is named June. I told her about the spoils of my conquest, how I’d found a men’s razor with five blades that was cheaper than the women’s.  

“I’m just tryna figure out what five blades could do that three couldn’t,” she said.

I laughed harder than I should have at her inquiry. Which might explain why it stayed in my mind throughout the rest of the weekend, making me giggle from time to time.

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You ever been so sad you can’t move? That’s where I found myself last night: in my tub, the water around me growing cold, just too plain sad to move. I planned to give June my review of the razors, and the bath bombs I’d purchased on the same excursion, but once I’d gotten in the bath and the fizz of the bomb disappointed me, I sat and soaked and sulked for an hour.

(In my Beyonce Obsessed voice): I knew it would come to this. Every year like clockwork (pun intended) I have to wrestle with a little sadness on the first of the dark days. And by “a little” I mean out-of-this-world-oh-my-God-why-hast-Thou-forsaken-me sadness. I’d thought with all the changes I made this year that it wouldn’t come, but, alas, it caught up with me as I drained and refreshed my bathwater.

I almost didn’t find out what five blades could do. The razor stared at me from the edge of the tub, untouched since I’d unwrapped it. I didn’t care about the razor joke any more. Or the fact that my bath bomb was a flop. I focused on trying not to take permanent action against a temporary problem like the dark-day blues.

I thought about what five blades could do that three blades couldn’t.

I thought about what one blade could do.

I rose from the water and gave myself a nice, close shave and thanked God for the friendships that kept me holding on.