Ohio University. Sophomore year. 1958-59.
My roomie, Arlene, came down the hall from the shower one evening glaring intently at her razor. She was holding it up in front of her nose, a perplexed, slightly cross-eyed look, on her face.
“When did you change the blade last?” I asked.
“Am I supposed to change the blade?”
“Um, yes, they do get dull after a while.”
“Oh. I guess my dad always changes it.”
“You mean you’ve been using the same blade since you left home two years ago?”
“Change the blade.”
The memory of that conversation still makes me laugh. I thought of it again a few weeks ago when I came across the flow chart below. I saved the chart, with no plan to use it.
Now I’m using the chart for the “funny factor,” but I have reason modify it. Diagonally from “Do you care if people see your hairy legs?” I’d put a starred box that shouts:
And of course I’d check NO!
Well, darned if I didn’t end up in the ER after a couple of short circuits. When the nurse pulled back the bottom of my jeans to find the pulse in my ankle, I was relieved to be able to say, “I’m so glad I shaved my legs last night.”
“Oh, never worry about that, Sweetie. Everyone in here wears scrub pants on their shifts because no one has time to shave their legs. We’re all in the same boat.”
Even so, I was glad I’d done it, especially when a series of attractive, young doctors arrived.
As if they cared whether my legs were shaved.
At least I had a pulse.