A man stands in front of the mirror. His wet hair suggests he is not long out of the shower. He has shaving cream lathered on his face, and he is holding a Gillette Mach 3 Razor blade.
Not a morning person, this man looks wearily at his reflection. He is no stranger to existential dread. His sparse, empty bathroom suggests a life of desperate solitude. Mourning a youth that couldn’t last, he takes a few moments to shave. Shaving gives him momentary sanctuary from the world. For just a few minutes, the cycle of birth, death, growth and decay are in his hands, controlled by the careful process of scraping a razor blade methodically across his face and neck.
As he raises the surgically sharpened blade to his neck, a golf ball travelling at lethal pace swishes through his open window and sends the blade flying from his grasp. He stands impassively for a few seconds, wondering if this bizarre and traumatic incident is a creation of his own imagination. He is unsure he is even awake. Maybe this is another of the nightmares he is tormented by.
He emerges from his trance and goes to the window to identify the source of this act of domestic terrorism. From his window he sees the handsome multi-millionaire golfer Tiger Woods, who nods smugly at his victim as he returns a club to his golf cart.
Shaken by the incident, our man leaves the house unshaven, with the apparent goal of replacing the razor blade vandalised by the belligerent golf legend, as the next we see of him is in a shop, selecting another Gillette Mach 3 razor from a precariously balanced display stand.
As he does so, he is pelted with a football, and is bewildered by the resulting cascade of razor blades. Through the carnage, he thinks he spots the handsome multi-millionaire footballer, Thierry Henry.
He hurries home to complete his ablutions. Trembling with anxiety, he plucks up the courage to return to the bathroom, vulnerably dressed once again in just a towel. To his horror, a ball – this time a yellow, fuzzy one, fizzes past him at nearly 200kph, courtesy of the handsome multi-millionaire tennis player Roger Federer.
His lip trembling, and on the verge of tears, our man is the victim of one final assault. Federer pings a Gillette Fusion razor at him with his tennis racket. He catches it out of pure instinct, and proceeds to shave without interruption, albeit under duress, his cheeks moistened by salty tears of anxiety.
As I watch this horrific scene unfold, a sinister voice tells me to switch to Gillette Fusion while the three handsome millionaires laugh callously. Okay, Gillette – Okay. Go easy – I’m switching. I don’t want no trouble, you hear?