Maybe it's the beard -- something I've worn since the early Reagan administration -- but people seem genuinely surprised when I tell them that I shave every day. Not all my face, but easily half the territory of a clean-shaven man, every morning before showering.
That's what I thought just about all men did. Apparently not, as I'm finding out, and not because they want to go full caveman-style, either.
For years, I've been partial to a brand of two-bladed disposable razor that give a clean shave with minimum effort. I thought I'd take a look at some of the new systems, although the idea of five blades on a razor head hints of overkill. (I also remember a Saturday Night Live fake commercial from the 1970s getting a laugh for touting the concept.)
These aren't cheap, and charging $10 for the handle revealed that Gillette isn't making money just on the razor blades, either. A phrase on the packaging, thought, struck me odd; it detailed the blade life is different for each user, "especially if you choose to shave daily."
Choose to shave daily? As if this is the out-of-the ordinary behavior of defollicating neat freaks? Or that it's ... well, it's just not done anymore?
Shaving, to me, offered itself in my early teen years as an adult task, done before breakfast in a doubly vain attempt to appear handsome. As I progressed, I worked through a succession of Norelco electrics before hitting on Gillette's Trac II and, finally, its disposable prodigy.
Shaving is also an area where many sons take after their fathers; my dad, however, disdained an electric for a two-edge, single-blade safety razor, and later adopted the newfangled double-edge. I suppose I adopted the Trac II from his example, albeit years after I'd left home.
My father, however, approached shaving as more than a daily need. As a hardhat construction worker, he didn't go through the niceties of cleaning up before work; his bathing came after the shift. Every weekday evening, I remember him standing at the bathroom sink, his lathered face accessorized with a just-lit Camel cigarette in the middle.
He'd make long, clean strokes with the razor; then a pause, a rinse of the razor, a long draw of the Camel and a swig of the cold beer perched on the sink; then a repeat of all the actions until the lather, Camel and beer disappeared. He stood back and looked in the mirror, feeling not only clean of face but also refreshed.
My father is more than 20 years gone now, but I still share that same feeling each morning. The shaving foam, the blade heated by the hot-water rinse and the smooth wet skin signal a clean new day, with a final top-off after a shower with the tingle of a spicy after-shave gel. My face feels great and, yes, refreshed.
The dearth of after-shave products tells me that I'm in a dwindling minority, but I'm not going to stop and become one of these stubble-faced guys who think they're hot stuff with cheeks and chins covered with scratchy bristle. I'll continue the daily appointment, finishing every time with my moment of being clean, sleek and renewed.
And, I'll do it with the trusty supply of disposables. I don't need to pull a razor with a Venetian-blind collection of blades to get what I need in a shave.
