Venus is Her Name, Baby!
by Diane Dean-Epps•More.com Member {View Profile}
Excerpted from MORE magazine
by Diane Dean-Epps•More.com Member {View Profile}
Excerpted from MORE magazine
"Smooth and on the Move"
Photograph by Anne Green
It’s no coincidence that she is named after the goddess of love and beauty. All I know is she is the best thing to hit the women’s beauty market since the razor; the original razor. She is a goddess among many, but a rarity in and of herself. She changes lives with a stroke or two of shearing genius, leaving behind smooth perfection in her wake. She is a gift from the heavens. The chosen one amongst all razors. Her name? Venus. (Cue celestial music.)
Photograph by Anne Green
It’s no coincidence that she is named after the goddess of love and beauty. All I know is she is the best thing to hit the women’s beauty market since the razor; the original razor. She is a goddess among many, but a rarity in and of herself. She changes lives with a stroke or two of shearing genius, leaving behind smooth perfection in her wake. She is a gift from the heavens. The chosen one amongst all razors. Her name? Venus. (Cue celestial music.)
When I first met Venus she was only available in a cool, serene blue. Naysayers thought She was a fad, but I knew better. I had an underarm feeling, if you will. Never mind that the razor blades for Venus cost more than a small grocery store run for my family of four, she was worth it, providing me with a non-bumpy close shave the likes of which I’d never seen, not having appeared in a single porn movie. The importance of this device and the technology that created it cannot be overstated. Just mentioning her name to another woman brings up an opportunity for bonding like no other.
I introduced Venus to both of my daughters at an early age. Why should they suffer needlessly, like their mother did, through years of torturous shaving that left rivers of bright red blood coursing down still partially hirsute legs? And how about razor burn? For those of you who may not have experienced this on your underarms or legs (this would also rule out guys, unless you are a swimmer or weight lifter) it is a stinging, ever-present pain insistently reminding you, all the livelong day, that your skin is a living, breathing organ. Every time you sweat, bend, or initiate a conversation those bumps radiate “owie” messages like you can’t believe. And just about the time the excruciating discomfort relents, it’s time to shave again.
Razor burn makes me think of that line from the eponymously named song, Venus, by the band, Shocking Blue: “Was burning like a silver flame.” What an apt descriptor of those nasty little bumps and Venus, as a “Goddess on the mountain top” saves the day by preventing that kind of thing. Needless to say, this female shaving business became a task that none of us looked forward to.
If only I weren’t in a relationship where I actually liked my husband I could perhaps do that whole Sasquatch thing, but the truth be told I’m not a big fan of the body hair either. It impedes my whole sweating process for one thing. I like the sweat to appear and then move on, gliding downward, effortlessly, sort of like my bank balance does. For another, excess hair can lead to whole different sizes of clothing and jewelry if there’s too much of it. I like sleek. I like how it feels when I slide under my sheets at night and they smoothly settle on my silky skin rather than stubbing on the leg stubble.
Venus and I have been in a monogamous relationship for some four years now. I try not to judge, but some of you are living a double life, seeing a variety of razors, hurting yourself and your shave-enslaved parts in the process. But there are choices; like the available colors and accessorized models Venus offers.
Even as I was extolling the many virtues of Venus, not daring to dream it could get any better, She came out in Barbie pink. I felt playful, just holding a fuchsia toy in my hand again. All things were possible. I could begin with my right calf, go up to the right thigh and finish in reverse order on the back of my leg, all with a brightly hued helpmate; the adult, female version of racing a Tonka toy across my gams.
Or I could while away my free moments, performing any number of mathematical configurations that suited me because with the first stroke of the razor my body wasn’t sending out painful messages like, “For the love of God, is it time to shave again?” or, “Why don’t we move to Paris and sip cappuccinos while we watch our hair grow?” or even, “Losing consciousness from blood loss…must hurry,” and, finally, “You’re kidding, right? That was only the left armpit? We’ve got ANOTHER one?”
I actually look forward to my alone time with my Venus razor. It’s “she and me” time, Venus and Diane, together with a can of bargain shaving cream, adding to the adventure of it all. And the sensory experience aspect. The sound the shaver makes as I am restored to the smoothness that is my birth right is much like the shooshing sound of a downhill skier. Rhythmic. Athletic. Clarifying. Built for speed. It’s beautiful really. I can’t imagine what could ever make the experience better. Unless they added some sort of lotion to the shaver or something.
Hey, wait a minute. What’s that you have in your hand? Is that a drugstore flyer? Venus has a new model complete with lotion loaded into the blade? Wow! It’s not even my birthday.
