Straight Razors. They're Not Just For Emo Kids Anymore!

So, I recently completed my first straight razor shave, and did pretty well. I successfully didn't nick myself at all, and my right cheek was as smooth like butter.

I used a straight razor I recently inherited from my grandfather; thankfully, the inheritance occurred prior to his death. I recently mentioned to him that I was considering learning to shave with a straight razor, and he passed three on to me by way of my mom prior to her visit. I also inherited  a leather strop, and a large ceramic sharpening stone.

One of the coolest things I received was my great-great-grandfathers Remington brand "tobacco pocket knife" and whetstone. The knife still smells like tobacco. Apparently, way back in the day before the civil rights movement, and the Loving v. Virginia case that allowed my minority dad to marry my majority mom, people that chewed tobacco had to cut off pieces from a block; hence, a "tobacco pocket knife".

I went to a local gentleman's store where they sell everything from hats to canes to...straight razors. I picked up some Almond aftershave (the scent having been approved by my wife over the Bay Rum) and asked about honing (aka sharpening a straight razor). They actually said that some of them take their straight razors to a local "I like to hide in trees and shoot fuzzy animals" store and have them hone them in the knife section.

I followed suit, and had them honed there. (This may have been a mistake according to straight razor aficionados, but the razors came out sharp, and the one razor that had a chip was rounded out).

I went to Walgreens and purchased some mineral oil, got home and coated each of the razors, and then used rubbing alcohol to take off the excess oil.

I let the razors sit open for about 10 minutes to let all of the alcohol evaporate.

I jumped in the shower, and then prepped for my first shave.

I used Williams shave soap (I've used it for years even with cartridge razors) kept in a ceramic shave mug and what I believe to be a boar brush...I inherited it from my mom's bathroom closet a few years after my parents divorce (I think it was my dad's, but he wasn't around much...so it's been mine for about 6 years).

I stropped the razor a few times and lathered up.

I found what is called the "Japanese grip" most comfortable, and allowed me to see the most clearly. The angle wasn't as hard to maintain as I thought it would be after all the reading about how important angle is to proper shaving (one should ideally keep their razor at 30 degrees in respect to their skin).

I kept telling myself to think about how the cartridge would sit against my skin (or literally pick up my Mach 3, and press the cartridge to my skin), and do my best to match the straight razor to the angle of the blades in the cartridge.

I went super slow (maybe an eighth of an inch at a time) and anytime I felt the slightest tug or scrape I would stop, check my angle, and re-lather as needed (I am pretty certain this is why I didn't nick myself).

I successfully finished under my right sideburn, and was feeling pretty good so I continued to the right cheek. That was a little more difficult, but no major issues. I got to my jaw line, and realized I was quite stuck.

I don't mean "the razor went dull". I felt like an alien in my own body. At that moment is when I realized I had no clue what I was doing, and had no one to ask for help. I wanted to somehow transport myself to a time before the safety razor was invented just to ask, "Now what?"

This was truly a journey of my own. I had a few options: 1) Keep pushing through, and more than likely cut myself to the point of needing a blood transfusion and skin graft. 2) Stop shaving all together and attempt to pull off only shaving one quarter of my face as some sort of new "look" I had read about in GQ Magazine. 3) Accept the fact I was stuck, but at least shave the left side of my face to create some level of symmetry.



I fought with the angle/vision/hand use/grip for a while on the left, and finally resigned to doing my absolute best NOT to carve my face like a turkey, and switched to my non-dominant hand.

I finished my left sideburn and cheek after what felt like a decade of shaving. The angle of the razor would change while I was scanning the mirror for any spot of red liquid. "Is that blood?!? No...no, that is some melted gummy shark you were eating a while ago. Wait, why didn't that come off in the shower? Seriously, is that stuff made with some sort of adhesive? Focus!"

I was going to start on my chin, but could feel myself losing patience, and could not for the life of me find a comfortable grip/vision angle in order to shave.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and judged my work. Right side: B+ pretty smooth, minimal redness, no cuts. Left side: C No cuts, a moderate redness, pretty patchy.

I won't say that I feel like a new found man, but it is pretty bad ass to know that the only thing standing between a shave and a trip to the ER to have your face sewn back together is a few millimeters of skin, and the ability to keep a mind sharper than the razor your own not-so-steady hand is holding.

Maybe one day I'll be able to shave my entire face and neck in less than 30 minutes per cheek.

The Revolution Doesn't Include Health Benefits

When I was in high school I would sit at a diner for hours with friends, talking about how we were all going to become great artists, and follow our hearts, and change the world when we got older. Growing up in a small town a few hundred miles east of the center of the United States we believed it.

Step One: Graduate high school. Step Two: Go to college in order to pursue higher learning, but more importantly escape the town we lived in. Step Three: Get it all figured out; find a professor like Robin Williams in the Dead Poet's Society, or Laurence Fishburne in Higher Learning that will push us to the brink of ourselves, driving us to be better than we ever thought. Step Four: Graduate college, and change the world with our mere presence.

Sadly, real life seldom works out like the movies, and we were lucky if we completed Step 2, and it was considered a miracle if we even found a professor that took an interest as a person and not just another name on the roster.

Step Four is the crux of our current anomie. We all thought we would change the world, but forgot that we would have to grow up, get jobs, and fund the revolution we so greatly wanted to be a part of, because the revolution, if there is to be one, will be televised...and facebooked, and twittered, and blogged. We have so many methods of having ourselves heard, but so few of us have a voice to speak from.

What I forgot to include in my plan for world changing excellence was the idea that one day, I would be viewed by outsiders as "a man". Paraquoting the comedian, Joe Rogan, "One day you go to the grocery store, and the bag boy asks, 'Can I help you with your bags, sir?' You look around, 'Oh shit! Are you talking to me? I'm 'sir'? Oh if I'm 'sir' we are certainly fucked."

The way I see it, I am still a 26 year old dude, who happened to marry his best friend, and thus, avoid growing up. She still completes quotes from stand up comedians with me, still road trips with me, and still drinks too much coffee with me.

Don't get me wrong, I definitely know that I am no longer a boy, I can pay my bills on time, do my own laundry, and if worse came to worse I could probably change my own oil. That said, I am, most certainly, not a "Man". I don't mean that as a put down about the evils of corporate America "Man", I mean the "man" you could call to build a deck for you house, give you sound financial advice, rebuild your engine, all while keeping a pipe of tobacco lit between his teeth "Man".

I am, in my opinion, a dude. I got stuck somewhere in college. I can just get by.

Recently, I was in a car accident, nothing major, but my car was totaled. This led to a quick revelation, "My wife deserves a man." We are in our late 20s, both working part time jobs (although in the current economy, any job is good), we have no health insurance, no life insurance, and I don't know how to do anything of note.

This is my journey to rectify that.

If anyone knew how to be Men it is the generations of the late 19th through the mid-20th centuries. I don't mean to say that the times themselves were better, but I think there is a lot to be learned. They wore hats, carried canes, and had manners. They made alcohol in their bathtubs, and knew how to work on their cars. Men of previous generations knew how to respect someone, and how to put them in their place with a good verbal jab. They knew why to put down their coats over a puddle for a lady, and what to do with that coat after the woman crossed over. They are the generations that survived the Industrial Revolution, the Great Depression, and two World Wars.

If I want to see a "Man" when I look in the mirror, I need to take some notes, and aquire some life skills.

(Coming Next: Nothing makes you feel more bad ass, or tests your patience more, than shaving with a straight razor)