Apologies to anyone expecting anything real of me atm. A week of typing at a badly ergonomically designed desk (i.e., my dining table) appears to have undone the last couple of years of antiRSI training. To the anecdote.

The world is divided in the world of shaving, as it is in so many other things. It is divided into four groups: There are those who shave with real razors (Real Men), those who shave with Electric Razors (Girly Men), those who shave with Big Knives (Fools) and those who don’t shave (Bearded Ones. Also: “Girls”) (This Venn diagram of simplicity does not take into account the semi-bearded ones, who we shall ignore, then mock, then ignore again because it complicates the theory).

My new flat, awesome as it stands in majestic dominance of the landscape, does not contain a shaving point near the sink, or any other mirror. So, I could either attempt to run electricity into the bathroom (An unpopular suggestion, finally vetoed by my remaining shred of self-preservation) or I could migrate from the second category into the happy world of the first. (My self preservation and I had a small argument about this, on the basis that scraping multiple blades across my accident-prone face was probably unwise, but countered with the fact that it appeared to feel that these multiple blades were safer if they were whirling and powered by Phillips, it backed down. The Third option was never raised, and the fourth remained trapped, sat upon by it was by the overwhelming memory of the (fortunately unphotographed) University Experimental Facial Hair Phase).

See? You thought an entry about such a banal subject was going to be dull, didn’t you? And here you are, getting a valuable insight into my twisted and fractured psychology. Aren’t you _oh_ so lucky?

Buying a razor is more complicated than you may assume. First, there is the essential question of blades. Do you want a single blade? Two? Five? Nine? Do you want a razor that will make you feel like aeroplanes are passing over your skin, or more like someone is whiling a sabre near your face? How about the speed of sound, do you want a razor that could break it? Twice? Three times?. Then you must be sure to decide on the duskiness of the maidens who will waltz into your bathroom to keep you clean shaven. Do you want a battery powered one? one that oozes ichor into your skin? Ectoplasm? Or would you prefer moisturiser? Does a razor that oozes moisturiser negate the razor back into “Girly Men” category? Even if it’s battery powered? What the hell is the point of a battery powered safety razor anyway? And why the hell are the blades more expensive than the main unit? Talk about your razor-blade econo… oh, yes, right.

Eventually, and after much soul searching, I picked one that didn’t ooze any kind of gunk, but would break the sound barrier three times whilst a dozen dusky maidens bathed me. Then I put it down for the one that came with a box of extra blades instead, because I’m not made of money.

Eventually I managed to buy the thing (Which required the cashier to find a manager to authorise the purchase while the queue behind me snaked further back into the store until it was lost in the mists, and also the person behind me threw money at me until I went away), but argh, why must everything be so complicated?