The Trimmer Story

This story is about a trimmer.

Or maybe about its owner. Or wait, can’t it be about both?

We’ll see.

There was a boy who had a trimmer. Nothing too fancy, just an ordinary beard trimmer, but with a blue LED battery indicator. He loved that trimmer. It came with length attachments of various lengths, which enabled him to keep a uniform facial hair style. It also boasted of its ability to get a full charge on 30 minutes of charge.

Sounds like a good trimmer, yes?

But the boy was good too. Or was he? Seems like an irrelevant detail to note, but nevertheless he could be called a decent human being, on par with the local Egg seller, the helpful Maruti salesman who sold him his car, and the man who invented the electric trimmer.

Irrespective of the boy’s morality score, we should really be focusing on the trimmer.

A day came when the boy who loved the trimmer in question, flew to Hyderabad to meet his dying grandfather, who coincidentally loved the boy’s trimmer as well.

Shaving razors don’t really cut it do they (Pun intended and landed)? I mean, one wrong move and you virtually introduce Mister Blade to Missus Blood. Trimmers on the other hand have a cleaner track record, on par with a Christian politician, a janitor at a Vacuum convention center, and my Chartered Accountant.

But the boy loved his grandad more than his trimmer. So he did what most good people would do for someone they loved.

He pulled the plug.

OF THE TRIMMER, OF THE TRIMMER, NOT THE GRANDFATHER’S LIFE SUPPORT……

Doing such a heinous crime should bring his morality score down to the level of the local street singers who graces the entire neighbourhood with their incredibly unattractive musical worship, the local therapist as they charge you by the hour only for you to realise that you are fat, not depressed, and the subsequently diagnosed gym trainer who chooses to break your body faster than the hourly charge of the unnecessary therapist.

Anyways, the boy offered to give his trimmer to his grandfather until the grandmother entered the offer stage. Naturally, as the boy’s other guardian, she alleged that the grandfather should not take the boy’s trimmer as he would eventually have to spend money to buy a new one. The grandfather defensively reminded her that he would not ever steal from the boy, and reluctantly agreed to abandon the transfer of ownership.

The boy however loved his grandfather, so he made a deal. Fifty thousand in unmarked bills, and a passport under a new name.

The grandfather would have none of it, so the boy proposed a counteroffer.

He would hide the trimmer in a concealed location and pretend to have ‘accidentally left it behind’. Intrigued by the exciting nature of the plan, the granddad agreed and the trimmer was hidden, a helpless casualty of an act of loving subterfuge.

The trimmer was soon forgotten about after the boy left, much like the boy’s income tax filing and his mother’s birthday. The boy went on to purchase a newer trimmer, one without the abandonment complex he left his previous trimmer with, and life was good.

The end?

8 months pass by.

The boy heard that his grandad had passed away. Sad events really, but from the point of view of a trimmer, the entire thing is quite complicated. I mean, what would you do differently if you were a trimmer? Your life’s entire purpose is to cut hair, not contemplate death and faith. Oh, to be a trimmer……

I digress. As I was saying, the boy flew to Hyderabad to attend the funeral of the man he loved more than his trimmer. Ironically, he did manage to shave, but he went back to using a shaving razor. Clearly, the boy has trouble making basic life decisions and mustn't be chastised for courting danger with a sharp blade.

As the boy browsed thoughtfully through his grandad’s cupboards and cupboards of personal effects, hoping to find a memento that would remind him of his grandad once his memory faded, he reached the cupboard where he had concealed the trimmer 8 months ago, smiling as he remembered his naughty deal.

And there it was.

A Hot Water Bag and Tissues.

And under that anti-climatic find was the secret trimmer, still sitting in itss box.

The boy painfully opened the box, sad that his grandad may never have used it. But alas, once the lid of the box was opened, lying upon the trimmer were 5 stray grey hairs of his grandad, a painfully, beautiful comfort for the boy and a sign of bad maintenance to a person with OCD.

Perhaps this was the closure the boy needed? Perhaps this was a secret message from his grandad to him, a best-kept secret, a personal keepsake until they would meet again? Love is complicated that way. To some, it’s keeping in touch consistently or cleaning the house without being asked. To the boy, it was a little grey trimmer littered with little grey hairs.

To a trimmer, it’s being oiled every month, being cleaned with a brush (not water), and being charged fully after being used.