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I Think My Bic’s Been Flicked

I had an unsettling experience earlier this week. I went to a bachelor party Thursday night — a bachelor party without strippers.

But that’s not the unsettling part. ‘Incomprehensible’, maybe. ‘Unfathomable’, perhaps. But not ‘unsettling’, per se.

No, it was when I returned home that the unsettlement began. When I packed for the overnight trip, I didn’t take my shaver along.

(And if you have to ask why, then you’ve obviously never been to a bachelor party. And you probably don’t have a penis. Asking a guy why he doesn’t need to shave at a bachelor party is like asking a woman why she’s not taking her diaphragm to a funeral.

In other words, if you’re asking that question, then there’s a whole truckload of questions you probably should have asked first. You’re not on quite the same page as the rest of the class.)

Anyway, a word about this shaver first. Now, I used to be a razor man. A little gel in the shower, some nice hot water, and *shhhwwick* *shhwwack*, off came the stubble.

(On the face, by the way. Don’t be picturing me deforesting the pits, or pruning the pubes, or doing any sort of manscaping in there. I’m not female, metrosexual, or an Olympic swimmer, so all of my follicle-chopping happens above the shoulders. Just so we’re clear.)

But, a few years ago, the wife bought me a shaver. Norelco. Nice model, for late 20th century technology. Maybe she thought it would shave closer. Or maybe she was tired of watching my neck bleed, because I’m not all that smooth with a razor. At any rate, since the new hardware’s been in the house, that’s all I’ve used.

So. Sunday evening, I come back from the bachelor party with a scraggly weekend face full o’ stubble. Monday morning, I shower up and turn on the shaver. It goes:

Rrrrrr. Arrraoooo. Rrrrffff. Afffffrrrrpppp. Rrrrrr.

Maybe that doesn’t seem so bad to you. Maybe that’s what you’re shaver always says. Well, not me, cupcakes. The only noise I’ve ever heard out of my shaver is:

RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRR

(Notice when it got a little softer? I was trimming my sideburns there. Nice shaver.)

As you can imagine, I was a bit perplexed by my shaver’s new vocabulary. I thought maybe it wasn’t plugged in. Or maybe not fully charged. Or maybe possessed with the spirit of Bob Dylan — who’s not even dead yet, fer crissakes, but I didn’t want to rule anything out.

(You can never be too careful when it comes to folky rock star spirits taking control of your electrical appliances. We had the ghost of Jerry Garcia in the toaster oven last year, and it was terrible. For a month, all it would cook was brownies or hash. We finally exorcised him into the freezer, but if we don’t keep a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in there, he shuts the thing down. True story.)

Anyway, back to the shaver. I couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with it, but I used it anyway. That’s okay with a shaver, I think. A table saw, or a Bunsen burner, or a malfunctionaing vibrator, I think you need to be careful with. But a shaver — meh. It’s not going to hurt anything, really.

I noticed, though, that after a couple of minutes of gaspy whirring — during which, it wasn’t doing anything that could remotely be called ‘shaving’, by the way — the handle started to get really, really warm. Hot, even, as though all the volts that were supposed to be slicing the hairs off my fuzzy face were instead building up in the handle, waiting to spring out and fry my pancreas or something. Maybe the amps, too — because we all know: it’s not the volts that get you. It’s the amps.

So, I made a couple more swipes over the chinnal area.

(That’s a medical term: chinnal. ‘Of the chin‘. You can look it up in Gray’s. Sure, why not?)

Anyway, I scraped the blades through my face forest a couple more times, and then shut it down. Something was obviously horribly wrong with it. After six years of faithful service, the shaver was finally on its last legs. I even took it apart yesterday, to try and fix it. That’s always a bad sign for any electrical device in the house; once I’ve taken the screws off and opened it up, it’s got about three days to live. My screwdriver is like the sixth seal to our appliances; once they see it, they know the end is near. Make peace with your power cord, and say goodbye to the outlet; soon, you’ll be in a better place. Circuits to circuits, dust to dust.

But here’s the unsettling thing. (Finally.) Before I went on this trip, there was no sign whatsoever that the shaver was having any problems. I shaved on Friday for work; I even shaved on Saturday morning, before we left. So now I have to wonder: what in the hell happened to the thing in the thirty-six hours or so that I was gone? I’ve come up with a few theories:

1. My wife used it to shave the dog.

Now, this would be bad, of course. The dog hair wouldn’t be so nasty, except you know the dog licks it. And you know where her tongue was been, that filthy little pervert. So I’d really not like to be rubbing that sort of thing on my face. But, as far as I can tell, the dog still has all of her hair. So this probably isn’t it.

2. My wife used it to shave herself.

This might be better… depending on exactly what she shaved with it, of course. Shaving her hair — fine. But she’s not bald now, so that’s out. Shaving her underarms wouldn’t be so nasty, except you know she licks them, and you know where her tongue — um, never mind. Let’s not finish that particular thought.

That leaves only the arms, the legs and the naughty bits — unless my wife’s been hiding hair somewhere else on her person that I haven’t located, lo these many years together. Of the three, the legs would be the best bet… but I still don’t see it. Seems like it would take an awfully long time to shave those things with this little shaver dealie. Plus, she’s a redhead, and I think I’d be able to see the evidence hanging onto the shaver blades. So I think she’s in the clear.

3. Somebody else used my shaver.

This is the most unsettling of all. I don’t think my wife would invite someone in to use my shaver; that’s just wrong. Use my toothbrush, maybe, or try on my underwear — but use my shaver? There are some boundaries that just aren’t crossed.

And that leaves the conclusion that someone snuck into the house — while she was out, or in the middle of the night — and surreptitiously used my shaver. And ruined it, in the process. Some sneaky, sassy Sasquatch of a son of a bitch came in here and wrecked my razor. The nerve! What the hell is this world coming to? And all I can do is sit here, all stubbly and itchy, and take it. Bitches.

On the good side, I suppose — assuming the thing doesn’t electrocute my eyeballs tomorrow morning — I can go pick out a new one this weekend. Or go back to using a razor, or dip my cheeks in Nair every morning. Something, but it won’t be the old Norelco, that’s for certain. It’s just about rrrrfffttt-ed it’s last rrrrfffttt. And I’ll never know exactly why. I knew I should have installed those cameras in the bathroom. I told my wife they’d be good for something other than porn. And now look what’s happened!

Maybe I’ll do myself a little ‘manscaping’ with her Lady Remington. That’ll learn her.