For the past year and a half or so, shaving has meant trimming my moderate offering of facial hair to a respectable length. My dad purchased an electric rechargeable trimmer that, without any attachments, gives a nice close trim in a matter of minutes. Once I started using it, I never went back to the old-fashioned razor and shaving cream. I felt like I was doing my tender skin a favor, and a little stubble never hurt nobody.
In October of last year, I moved to the Castro. On the first Monday morning in my new apartment, I went to give my face a trim. Much to my dismay, I flipped the switch on the trimmer and nothing happened. I flipped it again, gave it a shake, stuck it back in the charger and tried once more, but got no love. The darn thing was broken, and I had no idea what to do.
I went to work that Monday, and for the next couple of days, as I tried to procure another trimmer, I allowed my stubble to grow into an unsightly, prickly mess. I perused the Walgreens offerings but didn’t find what I was looking for. I was told by an un-helpful Radio Shack employee that I “must be looking for razor shack”. As the week neared its end and my facial hair continued to grow I finally settled on an interim solution: a $7 sideburn trimmer from Ross.
This little piece of shit is powered by two double-A batteries, and is not intended to do more than reset the edge of one’s sideburn. It is by no means intended to trim the entirety of one’s scraggly beard, but that’s exactly what I did with it, in a painstaking, sometimes painful process that could last up to twenty-five minutes. I had to move the thing in a maddening series of minuscule strokes, all the while listening to its pathetic little whine. On must-shave mornings, I’d set my alarm an extra half-hour early.
This inefficient and frustrating routine persisted for nearly a year. No matter how many times I dropped the damn thing it continued to work. I replaced the batteries a half-dozen times, and in the back of my mind was always thinking about finding a proper trimmer, but at the end of the day little “Protocol” was still the only thing keeping me from looking like a complete bum.
Yesterday, as I thoroughly unpacked and cleaned my room—addressing piles of things I’ve neglected for months—I came across Andis, my original and deceased beard trimmer. Without a manual, a receipt, or any record of purchase for this machine, I had long-since given up hope of repair. I placed it in a box to be thrown away, and a couple hours later I was beside the trashcan in my backyard, preparing to send it to its final resting place. I knew that devices such as Andis didn’t belong in the trash can, indeed there was a sign on the can prohibiting electronic appliances, and a sign on Andis prohibiting trash cans, but I was feeling lazy and eager to be rid of this dead machine, so I ignored the warnings.
Beside the trimmer in my trash box was a single sock without a partner. I stuck the trimmer itself inside the sock, then tossed it and the charging base into the can, that was empty save for the foul residue that lives and grows in the bottom of most garbage. Emptying the papers that remained in my bin into the recycling can, I clomped back up the stairs to my apartment and resumed reorganizing my room.
I felt poorly about having tossed the trimmer. I thought about Mother Earth, and how I want to lead an environmentally conscientious life, and after a couple of hours I’d decided to retrieve the trimmer and clear my conscience.
I went back down the stairs, opened the can, and gingerly peered into the stinky depths. Fortunately, the charger’s cord had stayed draped over the edge of the can, so I was able to easily pull it to safety. The little white sock, however, was stuck deep in the bottom of the pit. I grabbed a discarded swiffer that stood beside the garbage, and carefully fished the trimmer to the surface, where I gingerly plucked it away. Holding the sock over the platform where the charger rested, I gave it a few good shakes and out popped the trimmer. I tossed the sock back into the can and closed the lid.
As I gathered up the trimmer and its base, however, I saw that the trimmer’s metal head was missing. I begrudgingly reopened the can and again fished for the sock, feeling that it contained the metal trimmer head. But as I grabbed the sock, the trimmer’s head came flying out and fell into the deep. I again probed with the swiffer, pinning the metal head against the inside of the can and gently drawing it upwards until finally I had it in hand. I’d brought a paper towel with me, and I gave all three bits of the contraption a wipe and headed upstairs.
The thing smelled a bit of garbage, so I set it carefully on a magazine on the kitchen table, and prepared to do some cleaning. I casually picked up the decapitated trimmer and gave the switch a flick. It turned on. The little drive bit spun. I turned it off and back on again, just to be sure, and sure enough there was power. In a rush of excitement I ran to the bathroom and fished from the trashcan a toothbrush I’d discarded just the night before, and carefully cleaned the contraption I’d left for dead nearly a year ago. Carefully, I snapped the head back on the trimmer, filpped the switch, and gleefully watched little Andis do its thing. I plugged the charger into the wall, placed the trimmer in its home, and saw the light go red, signifying the proper charging of the device. I was floored.
After a year of suffering at the hands of a chintzy little device, I was reunited with a machine I’d grown to love. After a half-hour of charging, and just before departing for Sacramento, I enjoyed a pleasant, fulfilling five-minute shave.
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