Rebarbative columnist seeks close shave

It is difficult to explain how I ended up a college professor. I had a perfectly normal, indeed nearly quintessential American boyhood on a farm with real people, real animals and dark, wooded mountains as far as the eye could see. I played baseball in hay pastures and listened through crackling static to the agonistic exertions of the Cardinals in far-off Saint Louis. I dreamed of growing up to be like Stan Musial, indeed dreamed of being Stan Musial, among the most graceful hitters ever born — and certainly among the most clean-shaven. For when he was not hitting the long ball or making the impossible catch, Stan would be praising the nearly magical products of his sponsor: "Gillette Blue Blades, with the sharpest edges ever owned." We underestimate the degree to which we insist on seeing and hearing what we think we see and hear, however improbable; and only many years later did I realize that the final word of the sentence was honed. By then television had arrived, and zombie-like shortstops could be seen as well as heard, staring from the snowy screen relating episodes of tonsorial autobiography in voices that sounded like bad poetry badly read.

Well, half a dream is better than none. I may have failed to become a professional baseball player, but I did eventually get a few whiskers; and there is nothing to stop me from praising the properties of Gillette products, especially since one of them is among the great achievements of modern civilization. I refer of course to the "Mach III" razor. One of the marvels of engineering, the Mach III cunningly mounts in a small swiveling cartridge three tiny blades, surely the finest ever owned, to deliver the world's closest, freshest shave. Yessiree, sports fans, once you have experienced the Mach III shaving with an ordinary razor will approximate taking a shower with your socks on.

I discovered the Mach III about the same time that the "state quarters" began to be minted, and by some curious Lockean process the two are associated in my mind; I have a tendency to hoard both. Whenever I get a state quarter in my change, I put it in a box; whenever I am in a drugstore, I try to buy a spare cartridge of blades, surely a sounder investment than common stocks in today's uncertain economy. So when a few days ago I went over to CVS to leave a prescription for my spouse, I naturally thought to avail myself of the opportunity to pick up some supplementary Mach III cartridges.

Imagine my consternation upon discovering that among several panels of shaving paraphernalia there were no "Mach III" cartridges, only the gaping lacunae where they had been. A horrible thought raced through my mind. Mullah Omar had been ejected from Kabul; even Dickinson Hall had fallen silent. Yet here in the commercial heart of Princeton Borough was chilling evidence of Taliban influence. Only then did I spot the small notice in childish printing — so inconspicuous that I had overlooked it — "For Mach III, inquire at register."

Temporarily stymied, I proceeded to the pharmacy counter. Not for the first time did I notice that the entire back wall of the CVS store is an imposing monument to the prophylactic latex industry. Geriatrics must approach any consultation with the pharmacist along an aisle suggesting an International Festival of Condoms. Indeed even at that moment a little old lady was having to reach over a lifetime supply of French Ticklers, at eye-level, to get a refill of her diuretic tablets. I left my wife's prescription; but for the Mach III I was told to go to the front register, where indeed the salesclerk in surreptitious manner reached under the counter and furtively whisked a pack of Mach III cartridges into a plastic bag.

The indices of social revolution are sometimes subtle and perplexing. Back in the early 1950s razor blades were openly displayed in commercial emporia. It was the condoms that they kept out of sight behind the register, not that anybody, including the pharmacist, had ever heard the word "condom." The word was "rubbers" — a fact of the American lexicon designed to cause eventual confusion or embarrassment for a young American studying in England, where rubbers are worn on the feet. Really tough guys always carried a packet of rubbers. It was de rigueur, along with other accoutrements such as Brylcreme and a ratty black leather jacket, usually decorated with metal studs that spelled out "Studs." A late-40s Chevrolet with customized dual carburetor was a desideratum but beyond the finances of all but a few. These guys would tote around the same dog-eared and unopened package of rubbers for months on end, "accidentally" dropping it with contrived insouciance whenever they pulled a handkerchief from a pocket — roughly every twenty minutes as I remember. One guy used a very tired Trojan as the bookmark in his math book, as though one never knew when opportunity might strike while Mr. Higganbotham had his back turned at the blackboard with a quadratic equation. I could understand that cultural code, sort of; but the suppression of razor blades has me stumped. John V. Fleming is the Louis W. Fairchild '24 professor of English. He can be reached at jfleming@princeton.edu.