I started shaving with a dead man’s disposable razor, and it took all of five seconds, a cut, a nick and a scrape, to toss the razor into the trash, and reach for my trusty brand.
How could anyone shave with such a cheap razor as the dead man used?
I was thinking this while shaving in an unheated cinderblock restroom and it was 35 degrees outside and perhaps colder inside. I could see my breath while shaving, a first in my life. But our poor boys at Valley Forge had it much, much worse.
The dead man wouldn’t leave my mind. I’d used his razor, I’d worn his Pendleton jacket, I’d cooked with his spices, I’d prepped meals with his knives, I’d eaten his mustard and relish, I’d fried up ling cod in his frying pan on an outdoor fire. I’m considering using his coconut body lotion for…something.
Who was he? Is there any sort of cosmic transference between items left behind by the unknown deceased and passed onto new owners?
Certainly not on this shave! But that Mexican paprika I’m going through now, well, that seems like a different story.