An Open Letter to Streeter Seidell

Hey Street,

How have you been? I’ve been holding down the medicine cabinet. Mostly hanging out behind the deodorant and the half-empty bottle of penicillin. You know, that infection isn’t going to heal itself. I talked to toothbrush the other day. I asked him to tell you “hello” and that you’re almost out of mouthwash.

I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately. Your cheekbones. Your jawline. The way your skin feels against my steel blades. The way you used to gently tap me against the sink to clean me out. I miss those days. I miss you.

You had me fearing the worst, Streeter. This wasn’t like the time you got that Mach3 for your 18th birthday. At over $2 per replacement, I knew you’d dump that high-maintenance bitch and come back to me. And I took you back. After all, it’s not like you went gasp electric. Actually, this is a lot like when your girlfriend broke up with you, and you didn’t shower for two weeks. But when you were ready to date again, who was there for you? I was, that’s who.

Was the shaving not good? I’m willing to try new things. I went right along with that goofy goatee. Do you want sideburns? I can do sideburns. What is it, Streeter? WHAT IS IT?!? I’m not one of those disposable razors you can just use and then throw away. I have a pivoting head! Look at yourself in the mirror, son! You scare small children. Even your grandmother won’t kiss you!

I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t mean it. I just want you to know that when you are ready to ditch the scruff, you know where I’ll be.

Sincerely,

Your Razor