Romancing the Shave

I have a thing about shaving. As a man it is a daily right of passage and should be treated with respect.

I probably started the same way that most men did…or maybe not for that matter. I don’t remember my dad teaching me the finer points, and I think I may have stolen some of my mother’s pink disposable Bic razors and dry shaved that first awkward sign of manhood away. It certainly wasn’t anything poetic.

At some point my parents started buying me electric razor after electric razor. All of them sucked. I now shun automation in the form of electric razors at all costs and exclusively use a manual razor, but even that seems a somewhat manufactured experience.

To this day my idea of shaving has been shaped mostly by the imagery provided by Gillette in the mid to late 90’s, and the message back then was clear — be a man — be the best man.

I’ll tell you now, if you’re not already familiar, that the best man always shaves in black and white, and here’s how it would go if I were at my best.

I wake up, but you wouldn’t see that part — too messy. My face is pre-lathered in perfectly applied shave cream. Perhaps I woke up this ready to shave.

I start shaving with an 18 bladed razor with all kinds of rubber gimmickery attached to it. In fact, the razor looks more like a fighter jet than a shaving apparatus. I’m surprised they even let this shit onto airplanes these days. It looks like a weapon. Some of them even vibrate which is probably just to freak my hair follicles into submission — forcing them to surrender without contest.

I effortlessly clear away the shave cream and am joined by either my perfect magazine model children, or my beautiful, just homely enough wife. In our massive bathroom we are intimately close. They touch my face and remind me how much I’m loved for my rugged masculinity, and of course my “buttery-smooth-like-a-baby’s-ass” face.

After all of the face touching they leave and I am now dressed sharply in a nice suit, but with no jacket, because that would be constricting, and then — I touch my own face.

Damn is it smooth.

My face is actually so smooth that I have to stroke it repeatedly from the back of my jaw to the front of my chin with my head cocked to the air, and slightly to the left, showing you, the silent observer, my impossibly smooth jawline, and most importantly — my good side. Did I mention I have a subtle bum chin?

It’s one of those rare free moments that a man should take to himself. A daily ritual of sorts, but it’s not usually anything like the commercials make it out to be.

Normally, if I’m in a hotel, I’m shaving awkwardly in front of some sink/mirror combo that makes this more difficult than usual. I probably cut myself at least once, and the hair on my face has probably not reached that perfect balance of soft and wet that seems to only come after standing in the shower for at least 10 minutes.

If I’m at home I’m probably late for work. No perfect children or wife come to see me and nuzzle up close to me. I’m a bachelor. Even if I did have a wife and kids they’d probably be annoying. They’d be asking for money, or wanting to play play fight, or worse yet —they’d be crying — screaming actually.

My wife would probably be tired, look like shit (I mean really, it’s first thing in the morning somewhere in mundane middle America), and let’s face it, I would certainly look no better.

I’m either tired from working late, or hung over from dealing with yesterday’s work — also late. Either way the scene is far from perfect.

My bathroom is a mess. There’s toothpaste stains on the mirror, a couple of half empty bottles of cologne and hair product strewn about, and I bet the sink looks gross. That pointless aloe strip on my razor, if it hasn’t vaporized, is all gummed up and soggy.

This is probably the day I should change my razor blade, but I’m honestly not sure how long it has been, nor am I sure how long these flimsy things are supposed to last.

All I know is that I always try to make them last too long because they are so damn expensive, and for some reason the thought of going back to pink coloured, single-bladed disposable Bic’s makes me cringe.

However, back in my reality, I am not at my best. I am rarely ever at my actual best, but there are days when it does all come together in a fairly adequate fashion.

I shave at home in the shower and I’m in there for longer than 2 minutes. I remembered to clean the shower mirror yesterday so I can actually see what I’m doing. I’ve just replaced the blade on my jet-fighter razor and I’m not in a rush. Maybe it’s Sunday and this doesn’t feel like a chore. This is my time to reflect — even if it is only for a few minutes.

It’s not the perfect picture that Gillette has painted for me, and what’s oddly on point is that I don’t even use a Gillette razor. I’ve been a Schick man for my whole adult life.

I’m sure they had some equally cheesy commercial ad campaign, but I felt a bit rebel and somehow more educated when I chose Schick. In the end it was probably the lesser of two evils, but the point is that I chose Schick, whereas at the time, Gillette would have chosen me.

It was a point, probably in my late teens or early twenties, where I started to subtly define my individuality, not just as a consumer, but as a man.

The fact that I still think about those old Gillette commercials means that they did do something right. As cheesy as they seem now, I wanted The Best a Man Can Get. I chose a different product, but ultimately that idea of what shaving should represent still resonates with me. It’s as if Don Draper came up with it himself.

It may not always be the perfect scene, but there’s something about the male shaving ritual that sets the tone for the day, and you can bet when it all works out well, that I’m out there walking around with an extra bounce in my step.

And to be honest, I probably do stroke my face from the back of my jaw to the front of my chin with some reverence for what a great day it’s going to be.