Razorblade

It is morning. It is the time of the ideal employee to start his day.

Prior to getting himself clothed, he stands in front of the mirror, just after he has experienced a steamy warm shower. The temperature of water was so hot that even now the steam continues to rise from his shoulders, slowly fading.

He opens his cabinet and takes out his shaving cream. Smearing it on his facial hair, around the face below his nose, his hand grabs the 1950s stylized razorblade. Vintage Customs, was the name of the brand. The razorblade was coated in a beautiful maroon handle, and it's blade was sharp. The man had used this razorblade before, and once, he managed to slice an orange in one go. Of course he wasn't going to cut any fruit today.

With the shaving cream digging into the thickness of his scruff the man positions his razorblade to the left. He gives a slight push of the blade and slowly begins to cut away. Rattling rings in the man's ears as the blade cuts away his facial hair. A scruff is but a minor thing compared to say a moustache, or a beard, or both. But to work at a place that consists of the most esteem men and women requires acceptable looks, equally importance as skills. Though the scruff was easily gone, he frowns at the sight of hairs on the upper part of his neck. He positions the blade.

The man hears a plate falling to the floor. He winces and his blade cuts through the hairs, but the upper neck comes along, forming a strip. The man does not scream, for it does not solve anything. Instead he grits his teeth as he makes way to his desk within his apartment. He takes a black paperclip and pinches the strip of blood to the remainder of his neck.

He washes his face, and he later grabs a needle and some thread that belonged to his mother. The thread was nearly the same as the color of his skin. He sighed, for it has been a while since he had a needle in him; the last time was when he was 10 years old. Sitting in front of a small mirror with a stand, he sticks the thread into the needle, as the needle finds its a way to cover up the the bloody strip that was in his neck. The thread went through each tiny bit of his skin, eventually closing the strip, and the color of the thread cloaked the injury.

He was no tailor or doctor by any means, but he was happy. The ideal problem solver must equally have a good idea and a good execution, he thought, a true motivator of his workplace!