The Razor's Edge

I have done stupid things. I have done things that have caused me much pain. I've broken bones in embarrassing ways. I have fallen down stairs. I once tried to tattoo myself on a moving train. I've eaten and drunk things that I have caused me acute discomfort. Now, I've been set on fire and tortured by an amateur.

Today, I went and PAID a woman to shave my face. She wasn't a whore, per se. At least not during daylight hours. She was perfectly nice or would have been if she hadn't been dragging a dull straight razor across my delicate skin. Basically, my beard was between her and the Chinese food she'd ordered for lunch.

She did not prepare my face. There was no warm towel. There was shaving cream, but only for a brief instant before the razor came out. The razor was such that it would have scarcely cut butter. I have tiny wounds all across my neck. I am slowly bleeding to death.

Very slowly.

After she had pulled all of the hair out of my face, she roughly wiped the blood and excess shaving cream away with (sand?)paper towels. Then she poured alcohol over my face and rubbed it in. That new, more precise pain was a welcome relief from the brutal attack I'd just survived. The Demon Barber (I know the name is taken, but it works here, too) proceeded to powder the raw and oozing wound that I used to call my face before taking my money. Scarcely was I out the door into the cooling breeze before her face was buried in her (similarly cooling) dish of noodles.

I am slowly bleeding to death.

Very slowly.