News from Nordstroms ... by gimleteye

On a hot, sticky Miami Saturday I went to Nordstroms to buy a polo shirt. I hate shopping. But on a day when the humidity is chasing the temperature and all the kids are out of the house and the dog is whining for his walk, why not. And there, with piano music cueing my entrance down the escalator, by the groaning board laden with polo shirts, an attractive 20-something attempted to sell me a motorized razor. She attempted to sell me a motorized razor by offering me an in-store giveaway: a free shave. Only two ahead of you. Never mind it was the afternoon and I had completed the tiresome chore hours ago. I ran an imaginary hand over my face and hers. I looked at the packaging, "Art of Shaving". Hmmm. One of the pop-up merchants who succeeded making the chore of shaving marginally less while charging more. I know "Art of Shaving". I am no fan of sandalwood. Almond, OK. Sandalwood, no. Still I was interested to see the name next to it on the box and packaging; Gillette. My curiousity was piqued, like nicking myself in a new place. "So 'Art of Shaving' is now a brand of Gillette?" I asked. My 20 something saleswoman had already taken my indifference (how was she to know it was a symptom of middle age) and downshifted to the 100 yard stare my son's girlfriends used to express as they glided past me in the house. "Actually it is P&G who bought Gillette who own 'Art of Shaving'." Well thanks for the explanation as she pushed the new object of attention into my hand. It was a vibrating razor with a LED to light the razor's way down the face, in case it gets lost at the jawline. I said to her, without either irony or an attempt to mask my greater world of experience, "It's just like a vibrator." From her reaction-- which was no reaction at all-- she had heard the line before. But in my defense (who else is there to defend me?) with its ridges and strong motion from the head of the razor to the tip of the handle, it was undeniably perfect for the purpose. "How much does it cost?" I asked with a measured whisp of interest. "One hundred fifty dollars," she said and, before she lost me, "But it comes with a lifetime guarantee." Now I know, for a twenty year-old a lifetime guarantee does seem within a set of reasonable benefit at point of purchase. But with a battery that gets manufactured in China, in a factory oozing pollution into the open atmosphere, thrown away when it's finished requiring more batteries, more razor blades: just what the world needs, another $150 razor. After my shower this morning, I looked in my bathroom drawer by the sink. In a little tray there are over half a dozen razor handles requiring replacement blades that are as easy to find as floppy disk drives. I didn't buy the motorized razor. I did buy a polo shirt. Boy, was it cheap. Then, again, it was made in China.