#razors -

[stonespulledoutheart]

i miss how i was before you

[pngblog]

can I request

razor blades ? I’m making a menhera based blog and need sum cute pastel pink razor blade PNGs. !

[behindthescreamz]

production photos of paul gutrecht as mark and mike butters as paul by photographer greg gayne for “saw” (2004)

[cirrus-grey]

I can't believe it took me this long to notice it but the medicine cabinet in my bathroom has one of those fucking weird-ass razor blade disposal slots like in that post I reblogged a while back

I've looked at this every day of my life and grown blind to the fact it was there, I think I just assumed it was meant to fit a support for a different shelving system??? I am now Terrified of what lies within this wall

[falling6in6the6black]

[nat-stimmy]

1909 Leslie Lawn Mower Razor Blade Sharpener (SOURCE)

[abigailmoment]

"Do you want to become art?"

There was a right answer to that question. And unless he gave it, things would get worse. Things could always get worse.

"Yes, master," he said.

"Say it," Cazador instructed.

Astarion swallowed thickly. Then he said: "I want to become art."

----

This is a companion piece to Kindness is Quiet and Bright. If you haven't read that, the ending will be a bit confusing.

Full Text On AO3

Full text below.

----

The worst part was the waiting.

That was a lie. The worst part was the pain. But waiting was awful in its own special way.

A sudden awareness that he was wanted had dragged Astarion to the upstairs study. It was the nice, east wing one with the large fireplace. Astarion hadn't been in here in five years, since the renovation. He knew about the renovation because he had helped bury the contract workers under stones in the dungeon. He noticed that the rug was new and a little garish, but that was the only detail he registered because, in addition to the rug, the room contained Cazador. And Cazador always had a monopoly on his attention.

Cazador was sitting at the desk reading over a spread of documents. He looked calm, which was good, and even a little smug, which was better. Good moods meant that sometimes begging worked. He was wearing the nice black doublet with silver filigree that he only wore for important guests, which made Astarion wonder who he'd been meeting with. It also meant Cazador wasn't going to do anything to Astarion that might damage his own clothes. Which was useful information.

After Astarion had been standing by the door for perhaps five minutes Cazador spoke. He didn't bother to look up from his papers, but he asked mildly: "Are you fond of that shirt?"

That meant something that was about to happen that would damage Astarion's clothes. Which narrowed Astarion's guesses about what was about to happen to four most likely scenarios. Whichever one ended up being true, he didn't want to lose the shirt. He took it off, folded it carefully, and stowed it under a chair. Then he went back to waiting.

The waiting was both horrible and boring. Astarion passed the time by examining and having opinions about the renovations. The rug was of good make, but the color was much too loud. The new wood paneling was tasteful and Astarion agreed with the choice of walnut. There was a giant oil painting of a still life with a skull and wilted flower. It was hilariously ugly. Astarion tried to daydream about the conversation that had produced such an unfortunate commission, but he lost track of what he was thinking about every time Cazador moved.

He kept at it, though. There was nothing else to do apart from muse disjointedly and be afraid.

Eventually Cazador started rolling up the sheaves of parchment on his desk. He opened a drawer and put away all but one. Out of another drawer he produced a black lacquered box. Astarion recognized the box. It was very old and filled with razors and knives. The four possible scenarios that Astarion had been trying not to think about narrowed into one.

It was better, though. To know what was about to happen. Better than uncertainty. Cazador looked at him directly for the first time.

"Do you want to become art?" he asked.

There was a right answer to that question. And unless he gave it, things would get worse. Things could always get worse.

"Yes, master," he said.

"Say it," Cazador instructed.

Astarion swallowed thickly. And then said: "I want to become art."

"Good," said Cazador. "Kneel."

Astarion moved to kneel in front of the chair. He knelt up, so that his back was convenient to reach. He clasped his hands together tightly in front of him.

He heard a click behind him as the black lacquered box was opened. He heard the very soft sound of metal brushing against the velvet lining as something was selected.

Then there was a loop of sharp pain in his back. A circle. Drawn large, shoulder to shoulder. There was no blood. He hadn't been eating well enough to bleed from a cut so shallow. The loop of pain was followed by smaller strokes. Letters being carved.

This was how art worked: Astarion had to hold still, and he had to be silent. If he moved, Cazador would make a mistake. If he made a sound, Cazador would make a mistake.

And when Cazador made a mistake he would press the offending wound closed and order Astarion's flesh to mend. And Astarion's body would find dregs of blood that he could not spare, hiding deep in his organs where it couldn't bleed out wastefully. And there would be a dizzying pang of hunger. Almost as sharp as the knives.

And the dizziness might make Astarion sway. And then Cazador would make another mistake. And he would have to fix it again. And that could spiral into more swaying, and then collapsing, and then failure. And punishment. Things could always get worse.

The hardest part was keeping his back from moving. Astarion coped by trying to redirect all motion to his hands. He let his fingers clench and twitch as ts were crossed and is were dotted. There felt like there were a lot of dots in this one. Something particularly intricate happened at the base of his neck. He didn't move.

Cazador paused to check something on the desk. Astarion took the moment to flex his hands, rest them for long minutes while he heard paper rustling.

Then he heard velvet being scraped again. It was very quiet, but he was very attuned to catching that particular sound.

Cazador made another looping cut. Another circle. Smaller. Concentric. Then more text was being carved. The text was taking longer than usual. The cuts were very deliberate. Astarion would have thought that a smaller circle would be quicker to complete, but apparently not. He was getting tired by the end of it. He'd made two noises. A whine and a sob. He'd paid for them both.

The smallest circle was bad because it was almost entirely over his spine. He was trying to keep still, but he'd reached the point where sometimes his back spasmed out of his control. And there was something in the middle that had to be carved with that very particular scalpel that curled like a corkscrew.

"You are distracting me," Cazador said testily.

Astarion realized that he'd been making a sound. Whimpering. He hadn't noticed. He bit his tongue. The mark in the center had to be redone several more times.

Then finally, finally he heard the silk swish of the cleaning cloth. He stayed still, but was almost delirious with relief as he listened to each tool being polished and put back in its case. The click of the black lacquered box being closed was a sound pretty as a bell. Tolling that it was over. Over.

But then he was being moved. Not ordered. Physically moved. He was trembling with pain and even more starving than usual, so he didn't have the strength to resist even if he'd been mad enough to try. He was hauled up and pressed flat on top of the desk.

All right then. Not over. What was next? An epilogue drawn up his neck?

"Hands stay here," Cazador said, planting Astarion's hands where he wanted them, words sealing them in place. On the edge of the desk where he could grip.

Astarion felt indignant anger flare inside of him. This was insulting. He'd didn't need to be braced, like a fledgling who'd never been written on. He hadn't needed that for years. He could kneel through the pain. He turned his head to the side, about to say something deeply inadvisable to his master.

But that imprudent impulse died before it became words. When he turned, Astarion saw that Cazador was putting on gloves. Thick, black leather gloves. That was new. Astarion hated new. Why was he putting on gloves?

Astarion kept watching as Cazador produced a vase from a cabinet. A fine porcelain vase. The kind you stored ashed in. He also brought over three bowls. Pretty. Also porcelain. Of Amn make. Each was a different size and they stacked together, nested in each other. Like three circles.

Cazador took the largest bowl. He unlatched the urn and with great care poured a measure of its contents into the bowl. A cascade of white particles. It looked like sugar. Or salt. And it glowed very slightly. Astarion wouldn't have been able to see the very slight shine if the room hadn't been so dark. It glowed in a way that made Astarion instinctively uncomfortable.

"Crystallized holy water mixed with salt," Cazador explained. He liked to explain new things. He liked watching Astarion's expression change while he did.

"The tragedy of our art together is that it is ephemeral," Cazador continued. "The blessings that I have given you heal all wounds."

He reached over to touch Astarion's neck, fingers pressing into two divots.

"Save for the important ones."

His hand drifted over to touch the open wounds in Astarion's back. Raw and bloodless. Unable to scab. There was nothing to scab with.

"And these." He toyed with the broken skin, making the muscle sting. "These are important."

It was one of those moments where it was particularly strange to not have a pulse. It really felt like something should be beating wildly in Astarion's chest and temples.

"Master," Astarion said. His mind was racing, even if his heart wasn't. Trying to come up with something to say that would change anything.

"Yes, boy?" Cazador said.

"Art is ever changing," Astarion tried, that sounded pretentious enough to appeal. "Isn't it? And wouldn't it be a pity if you were inspired one night and...I couldn't provide a canvas? I would...so hate...to lose these evenings together."

Cazador paused in his preparations, seeming to consider. He reached out and put an indulgent hand on Astarion's cheek.

"Astarion. You beg so prettily."

He'd used Astarion's name. That sometimes meant strange things. Astarion waited and watched. Cazador was silent for just long enough that Astarion started to hope.

"But you scream more prettily than you beg," Cazador said. "Perhaps that is something to work on?"

He checked his gloves again. Then he picked up the large bowl of white crystals. He set it down on a slightly different position with a deliberate click.

"For the outer circle," he said.

Cazador poured out another measure of sparkling white flecks into the middle bowl. He set it next to its fellow.

"For the inner circle."

Cazador filled the smallest bowl to the brim and put it down inches from Astarion's face.

"For the spine," he said.

"Master," Astarion whispered, graceless now. "Please don't. Please..."

entering turn based mode.

"Art doesn't talk," Cazador told him.

And with those words, Astarion became something that didn't talk.

And all he could do was watch as Cazador checked his gloves again, picked up the smallest of the bowls, and moved behind him. Out of his range of vision.

standard action: hide / move: 9 meters / end turn

There was a sensation like fine gravel falling on his back. Into his back. Bouncing into the open grooves of torn flesh. And then it started to burn.

It burned and it burned and it was worse than fire or sunlight, because it didn't burn away. He could feel the crystals inside the wounds. Radiance and salt. It was like he was being cut open again, but all at once. It was so exquisite and precise. He thought he might be able to read the letters by feel, if only he knew the language and wasn't dying of agony.

move: 9 meters / free action: loot backpack / standard action: use scroll / end turn

When he came back to some sense of the world beyond pain he was panting. He tried to stop. Cazador hated breathing--a graceless habit in a vampire. Astarion managed to twist it into a sort of breathless hissing. He hadn't screamed. He'd been trying so hard not to scream while kneeling and the habit stuck. But it wouldn't last. Not when that happened again.

free action: take crystal ball / move: 9 meters / standard action: dash / move: 9 meters / end turn

Cazador was tracing the outer circle of cuts. No, they weren't cuts anymore. Astarion could feel that he had scars now. All over his back. A permanent change. They ached as Cazador touched them.

And then Cazador's hand entered his field of vision, reaching for the second bowl. Astarion wanted to beg, but he was a thing that couldn't speak, so he just hissed and whimpered and clenched his hands around the edge of the desk and tried to brace himself. He stared fixedly at the far wall. The window. The sky outside, moon and stars. Please. To be anywhere but here.

free action: drop item / free action: manipulate item

There was something wrong with the moon. He could see it through the window. And it was too large, and too bright.

And also, he shouldn't be able to see it. There weren't supposed to be windows here. There were no windows in Cazador's Palace.

Was he...not in the palace? Where was he? He could smell burning, but it wasn't his back. Wreckage. There was burning wreckage from the Nautiloid. But then the question became: what was a Nautiloid?

None of this made sense, but actually, that was all right. Because the moon was actually the sun. It had been very silly of him to mistake it. The difference between moonlight and sunlight was...ha. Well, it was like night and day. And the sun was so large and close that it almost felt like he could touch it.

So he did. He reached out and grabbed the sun and held it tightly. It was his now. His morning. His sunlight.

He sat down heavily, on a carpet, or on a beach, or in the forest. He wasn't sure. He didn't care. Wherever he was, it was better than where he'd been. Because things like...what had been happening. To him. They didn't happen under sunlight.

So he clung to the sun. He held it very tightly. And for a moment, just a moment, he was safe. ----

The next morning, Astarion discovered that he had apparently sleep-stolen Gale's crystal ball.

He wasn't certain how he'd managed that, or why he felt so very unreasonably fond of the object.

But it was his now. He hid it behind a pile of books and never gave it back.

***

Next Chapter >

***

[another-fucking-spinel-blog]

[angelxeyes]

Can sum1 tell me why puppy teeth are just razors but small????

[butchspace]

Hey, uh, people who shave their faces:

I used to struggle a lot with irritation but I switched to a safety razor and it basically went away! I don’t get as close of a shave but I can shave more often with horribly breaking out after. Also, they’re more eco-friendly since the only part that you dispose of is the actual razor blade itself.

[objecthusbandry]

Do You have Any info on razors?

yes!

razors of all types are highly carnivorous objects. their sharp blades are used for several things, primarily hunting for food, though they're also used in mate selection, self defense and territorial disputes. razors are often solitary but are known to occasionally work together to hunt in the wild, though they may still fight over the food itself. they mark the edges of their territories by scraping their blades against trees as well as scent marking. they will fiercely attack any other razor who comes too close to their den. when selecting a mate, males will use their blades to fight each other much like bucks will use their antlers, and the female will likely choose the winner.

these little guys are aggressive; they're known to attack humans who they perceive as a threat, including caretakers. razors are also known to engage in surplus killing. their claws and teeth, not to mention their blades, are constantly sharpened and are capable of doing a lot of damage to anything the razor attacks. you should absolutely not interact with wild razors under any circumstance unless you know what you're doing and have proper training.

their primary reason for domestication was pest control, as they'll hunt pretty much anything when allowed to. they'll attack things up to three times their size, and can even be trained as guard animals. that said, razors that are born in captivity and are raised around humans have quite different personalities - they can still display aggression of course, but they're much calmer than their wild counterparts. they still shouldn't be kept anywhere near smaller objects or animals or be allowed to interact with children, though.

[16woodsequ]

Sunday Steve - Day Nine

Things that would be new or unfamiliar to Steve in the 21st century, either due to the time period he grew up in, or his social-economic status and other such factors.

Day Nine: Shaving

Shaving was very important culturally in the 1930s and 40s. "A connection was drawn between shaving and employment: earning a living was a man's duty to himself and his family." (Link)

Razors: The electric razor was invented in 1921 and began to be marketed around the 1930s but Steve would likely never have owned one. He could have heard of it though. (Link) 

I can't find if the army used electric razors on new recruits in the army. However, I have found that if Steve got his hair cut in the field, he may have experienced a similar, mechanical method.

This is part of a 1945 barber kit. As you can see, the blade is similar to some electric razors, but they are moved manually with the handles of the clipper. Straight razors and scissors were also used. Clippers were used for the hair.

Soldiers in the army and most men in the 30s and 40s were clean shaven (if they did have facial hair it was a neatly trimmed moustache), and we'll get into how they shaved next.

WW2 Barber using clippers to cut another soldier's hair.

Steve likely would have shaved with a safety razor, also know as the Double Edge (DE) razor. (If you’ve ever seen razor blades, that is the blade used in a safety razor.) Blades could be bought separately and attached to the razor head which was then attach to the handle. Blades could be sharpened with a leather strap called a strop.

Animated Gillette Advert about Proper Razor Use, 1940s (8 mins)

This video is a really good way to see how shaving was typically done. The face is washed, shaving cream is applied to the face with a bristle brush then the shave commences.

Safety razors work like this:

Safety razors are often 3 parts (not including the blade). On a traditional safety razor, there's the handle, the razor bed, and the head of the razor (the head closes off the top of the blade and screws in to the handle). On a butterfly safety razor, the head and razor bed form one piece, and do not detach from the handle. Instead, you twist a part of the handle (usually the base) to open the head of the razor, at which point you can insert the blade into the razor bed. (Link)

These are the two types of safety razors we saw in the video. Butterfly razors were introduced in 1934.

Safety razors are held at a 30 degree angle from the face and it is important to let gravity do the work. You do not need to push or add pressure because safety razors are heavier. If you do these two things you won't cut yourself.

Safety razors are 'safe' because the guard on top of the blade ensures only a small sharp edge is available. This prevents deeper cuts.

How To Shave with a Safety Razor (4 mins)

This video shows how the safety razor works, as well as shaving cream.

As we saw in the first video, razor blades had to be bought to replace dull blades. However blades could be sharpened using a leather strop. Stropping went out of style as Gillette introduced disposable blades but clearly in the 1940 video it was still very much done.

I suspect Steve would have sharpened his razor blades as much as possible because in 1930 ten new blades cost 1 dollar (Link).

Some men also shaved with straight razors, but safety razors were easier to use so men didn't have to go to the barber shop for a shave. 

Two blade cartridge razors were introduced in the 70s. Three and five blade razors cartridges weren’t invented until the 90s and 2006 respectively. (Link) Razors with pivoting heads were also introduced in the 70s. (Link)

"Until the 1960s, razor blades were made of carbon steel. These were extremely prone to rusting and forced users to change blades frequently" (Link).

People who use safety razors today claim they provide a closer shave and are less irritating to the skin. Steve would probably be of the same opinion coming into the future and encountering razor cartridges. It would also take him some adjustment to learn the correct pressure and angle needed for cartridge razors.

It would not surprise me if Steve decided to use safety razors in the 21st century.

Shaving cream: Shaving cream in an pressurized can was not a thing until after WW2. Instead, Steve would have used either round bars of shaving soap (know as pucks) to create a lather in a cup, or shaving cream from a tube. 

Soldiers were issued a shaving kit and expected to remain clean shaven. Most kits included a razor, shaving soap or powder, comb, toothpaste or powder, mirror, toothbrush, and soap. Soldiers had an allowance of one blade a week and were expected to be clean shaven if possible. (Link)

Shaving kit accessories, including soap. See alt description for item details.

Here you can see soldiers were supplied with soap, a shaving brush and a shave stick. Shave sticks worked like soap pucks, the stick could be rubbed with the shaving brush to make a lather or the stick could be rubbed against a wet face, the brush then used to spread the lather. (Link)

Soap could be lathered into shaving cream as well. All a soldier would need would be a mess cup or helmet to hold water for shaving.

Another option was brushless shaving cream. This is shaving cream that came in a tube rather than in a puck that needed to be agitated into a lather.

Examples of brushless shaving cream tubes, the most frequent brands recovered on the battlefield. This site also has pictures of recovered toothbrushes and other toiletries.

Apparently brushless shaving cream had many unofficial uses:

It was perfect for sun- and windburn, nurses shampooed their hair with it, it soothed fleabites and softened chapped hands and cracked fingers. And there at Anzio the soldiers discovered that if they massaged their feet with it once a day, it went a long way toward preventing the dreaded trench foot. It’s a shame somebody didn’t shave with it once in a while. (Link)

Shaving brushes were made out of animal hair. Horse hair, badger or boar were the most common, synthetic bristles was also possible.

Shaving gel was not invented until the 1970s (Link) 

As for aftershave, from what I understand soldiers could receive toiletries from family or buy it at commissary. Listerine could be used as aftershave. There are also stories of soldiers using the mouthwash/aftershave Aqua Velva as alcohol. Aqua Velva had a contract with the government during the war so it may have been issued to soldiers instead of bought by them, I don't know for sure what the process was.

[toothtakrr]

razor blades in my dungarees

in my field no one hear u scream

[boatemboys]

do we fw my new bag

[themilkcrate]

"Cancel Culture" doesn't Exist: Companies and Corporations

Studies have shown that companies that use "cancel culture" will actually profit from being canceled, boycotted, etc.

Companies that have profited from "Cancel Culture" include:

Keurig (for dropping their sponsorship with Sean Hannity for defending a child molester and attacking women that speak out against abuse)

Fans of Sean would smash and destroy their Keurigs in protest. Because people would actually miss their Keurig, they'd buy one after destroying the one they had. People who supported Keurig's choice would be more likely to buy one. Therefore, Keurig would profit no matter who was leading the boycott.

Gillette (Razors)

Gillette made a commercial that had mentions of creepy dudesTM and sort of made a "real men protect others."/"real men support each other by keeping them from doing stupid shit." sort of message. People didn't like being called out so they destroyed or trashed their razors. However, as you could probably guess, Gillette doesn't actually care about women or their struggles. In fact, Gillette adds to the pile by contributing to The Pink Tax.

TLDR: In conclusion, companies actually benefit from boycotts and protests, using controversy for free marketing. Companies that speak out or make a stance against a certain belief or standard, don't actually care, and in many cases, practice the opposite of what they preach.

[whilomm]

most of this is defo stuff i was Already Aware Of but jeez seeing it laid out like this is. a lot.

turns out having a capitalist system that relies on addiction and trapping consumers into a single brand with patented refills can suck a lot actually