An Open Letter to Gillette

Dear Gillette,

This morning, as always, I was shaving my face with one of your razors. I can't tell you the specific model, but I'm pretty sure you market it by alluding to the type of powerful jet aircraft that defends our freedom by dropping ordinance on unsuspecting foreigners. Actually, maybe it was one of the models that involves allusions to nuclear energy, lasers, or other hallmarks of masculine precision.

To be honest, I've been a shitty customer in the past. There was a point in my life where I thought I'd eventually quit shaving my face twice daily, and when I was really tired of slicing my face open with new razor blades. Consequently, I went through a period where I'd use the same cartridge for multiple years, wearing its space-age indicator strip down to the sort of insecurity inducing nub that your product is supposedly designed to compensate for.

Two months back, I had not only used the last of the cartridges, but had made such extensive use of my fifteen-year-old razor that its chrome had developed its own patina, and its very masculine essence was irreparably compromised. Since I didn't plan on using your products on my face forever, and given that you charge somewhere between $10 and $5000 for a new razor, I decided to scrimp by buying a sack of your entirely disposable models. You know, the one with the nondescript name that says nothing about the respect with which society should accord my tool.

I'm sure you know damn well how that worked out.

Since it was clear that I was living in your world, I decided I'd cowgirl up and play by your rules. I bought a new razor, the one I was using this morning. I paid $10 for it, which could have bought me either a week's worth of beans, rice, and ramen, or Leatherwolf's debut import cassette.

Now while I'm not the kind of lady who writes pointless five hundred word screeds decrying the sorry state of the latest consumables, when I buy a razor that's name suggests moves across my face with the speed of a bullet, I have expectations. These expectations do not include having the edges of the plastic cartridges snap off, making it impossible to attach it to my intimidatingly chromed-out death razor. Twice. In two weeks.

A lady more inventive than I would undoubtedly devise a means whereby duct tape could be used to attach expensive, yet broken, cartridge to lonely razor. It goes without saying that she would upload a video of said technique to the Internet, in order to demonstrate her rightful place in society. A lady more patient than I would simply grasp the cartridge in her bare hand, slicing off any and all offending hairs in the same way one imagines ancient women used crude hand tools to skin wild animals.

Alas, I am neither of these women. Thus, I regret to inform you that I am considering joining the good Dr. Benjamin Grumbles in purchasing a Merkur, the only razor suitable for a woman of my station.

Good day, Sir,


PS I said good day!

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