Venus is Her Name, Baby

It’s no coincidence that she's named after the goddess of love and beauty. All I know is she's the best thing to hit the women’s beauty market since the razor; the original razor. A goddess among many; a rarity in and of herself. She changes lives with a stroke -- or two -- of shearing genius, leaving behind smooth perfection in her wake. 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 leaving 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 underarm razor burn it’s somewhat like a paper cut times a thousand with a splash of hydrogen peroxide thrown into the mix.)

It’s a searing, 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, shaving is serious business.

If only I were able to embrace the freeing natural state that is the whole Sasquatch look. The main reason why I don’t isn’t really cosmetic, but related to my health. My abundance of body growth impedes my whole sweating process. I like the sweat to appear and then move on, gliding downward, effortlessly, sort of like my bank balance effortlessly glides in a downward motion. 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 leg stubble.

Venus and I have been in a monogamous relationship for several 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. Don’t be taken in by the knock-offs. It just leads to unsightly toilet-paper festooned legs. And discomfort. And regret.

All things are possible with Venus at my side. I can begin shaving 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.

Throughout this relationship I’ve extolled the many virtues of Venus, not daring to dream it could get any better. And then it did. Venue rolled out in Barbie pink. I felt playful, just holding a fuchsia toy in my hand again. I didn’t even need Ken to complete this picture. I’m not even doing this for Ken. It’s all about me-me-me.

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, “Oh, dear gawd. That was just the left armpit. I’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’m 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 came up with a waterless version, or something.

Hey, wait a minute. What’s that you have in your hand? Is that a drugstore flyer? Is that an ad for a new waterless model? What are the chances. It’s not even my birthday.