The
First Shave
The sink is
cultured marble, the fixtures brass with ivory handles. Above it,
my reflection stares back at me from the mirror, the expression
just short of giddy. I have arranged everything precisely. All of
the clutter that surrounded the sink just a few moments ago has
been bulldozed into a pile on my wife's side of the counter to create
a clean, neat masculine preserve. Into the pristine vastness I place
the golden aftershave with its pink label. A small crown sits atop
the bottle, and aftershave is dispensed by twisting it off to reveal
a dribble-sized hole. Beside this I place the plastic Skin Food
bottle and the white tube of shaving cream, which I stand on its
cap. Then the Simpsons brush, also on its cap, bristles spiking
porcupine-like toward the ceiling. Now the Warwick razor, with the
words Geo F. Trumper stamped in black on the ivory handle. This
is a serene moment, a calm before the storm.
And storm there
will be. Shaving is a vigorous, a dangerous pursuit. Charles has
introduced me to it the way a drill instructor acquaints recuits
with a bayonet--or better, the way an old fencing master introduced
his pupils to the sharps. First, a torrent of hot water plunges
into the sink, filling it until the point where I can almost believe
I am peering into the crater of a rather upscale volcano. Then,
I take a dab of cream, grip the brush like a pistol, drip it into
the drink and go to work. At first nothing--a disappointing streak
of water foam--and then le deluge, an unexpected fury of
froth bubbles up in the palm of my hand. At once I layer my neck
in it, using the stiff-wristed technique Charles has demonstrated.
This reminds
me of nothing so much as the German mensur, where two swordsmen
stand rigidly within distance of one another, bundled in thick leather
and goggles, with only their cheeks exposed. Christoph Amberger
describes the process in minute detail in his Secret History
of the Sword. I fancy the odd motions of my arm as I lather
my face are not unlike those of the uplifted sword arm attempting
to scar the opponent's cheek by means of a stylized set of deadly
gestures. Again, it's serious business putting razor to skin.
Seriously
satisfying, that is. Nothing in the experience of an electric razor
man can prepare him for the moment when he peels back a layer of
white foam to reveal clean, rosy skin. It's like flaying the outer
man alive to reveal the bright, glassy man within. If I'm honest
with myself I have to admit I have no idea what I'm doing. After
an hour talking to Charles, I'm taking a super-sharp razor to my
throat with the absurd notion that it's the greatest thing to happen
to me since puberty.
During
the course of my preparations, my wife has come in. She takes up
a post where she can observe, with considerable amusement, my martial
sport. She is naturally long accustomed to my obsessive pastimes--my
collection of weapons, my collection of books, my collection of
pens--and there is something about seeing a 32-year-old man going
through a belated rite of passage that makes the woman who loves
him particularly indulgent: You spent $355 on this stuff? That's
fine. It really smells good.
When
I've finished, I rub in the Skin Food and apply the aftershave.
To mark the occasion, I've abandoned my black t-shirt and donned
a white linen shirt--something about the experience seeming to cry
out for white linen. It's too soon, of course, to expect the perfect
shave. This is the first time a real razor has ever touched my skin.
Charles has ordered me to be content with these basics for two weeks
before my initiation into the technique itself, which makes sense;
without the muscle memory and an acquaintance with the tools, much
of what he has already demonstrated is too far beyond my grasp.
Still,
I go out into the night a changed man, realizing that a new and
daily obsession has made its way into my life.
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