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Personal grooming: TMI
I have been looking at myself in the mirror with a view to scraping off my facial hair for about 50 years now. And I developed facial hair that has needed scraping off for just a few years shy of that. So you would think there is nothing much new I could learn about shaving. How wrong that would be.
Only avid readers of this column will remember that, years ago, I wrote a piece concerning the razor blade arms race, and how the marginal effectiveness of using a 15- blade razor as opposed to a two-blader could better be channeled into the search for world peace; or, to update the analogy, effective storage for intermittently produced electricity. So I don’t intend to rant on razors again.
No, this time I’m after shaving cream. Not the kind that you stir up with a shaving brush in a bowl—that’s shaving soap. Those who use a shaving soap are recreational shavers who use straight-edged razors as well—people who have read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and who think nothing of driving to Ottawa to pick up a made-in-Spain, custom torque, left-handed drill bit at Lee Valley Tools (even though there is now a store in Kingston). They’re the ones who will happily immerse themselves in the task of shaving because seeing how well they can do it is a source of pleasure for them. I’m talking about that can of shaving cream that puffs out and onto your hand, that you then lather into your face and attack with a safety razor (19-bladed or otherwise). And, as you might already have gathered, I’m talking about people like me, for whom shaving is strictly a means to an end. Get the job done and get away from the sink as fast as you can. Shave approximately every day, because doing it less frequently only compounds the agony. You tried growing a beard years ago, but spiders kept finding a home in it and it just made you look like a Marxist with training wheels. You also tried electric razors—but discovered the cheap ones don’t cut, they just buzz, and the more expensive ones collect hair, dust and, well, more spiders. So regular shaving with a 23-blader is just a horrible job to be endured.
There are, however, several disadvantages to using a canned shaving cream. One, you are always spreading either too little or too much of the stuff on your hands. If you spread too little, you’ve got messy, wet soapy hands when you press for more. If you spread too much, you’ve disabled your soap hand because you don’t want to waste the extra cream. Two, the stuff migrates: my wife is alway doubling over with laughter about the social faux pas I will create for myself after I have dressed up for a night on the town and emerged from the bathroom clean-shaven, but with white earlobes. But I guess all of us who use shaving cream have experienced this problem, right, guys? Guys? I can’t hear you. And three, the foamy stuff just ends up clogging up your 27-blade razor, so you spend three quarters of your shaving time washing the soap out of your razor.
So the other day, I was looking at the man in the mirror who was making ready to shave and who wore a defeated air about him and I suddenly heard a voice. “Why are you bothering to use this canned shaving cream stuff at all?” it asked; “Why not just use ordinary soap?” I had no quick riposte for this voice and so proceeded to heed it, and lo and behold, my shave went just as smoothly, more quickly and less messily. And I’ve kept at it for, oh, six or seven days now.
But of course I was annoyed at myself. Had I become such a ridiculous creature of habit that I would blindly spend all those decades following the same old habit, without thinking to experiment with ways to make the hated procedure more efficient? The next thing I’m going to hear is that there are some people who don’t butter their toast on both sides. Let’s face it: I need to shake myself out of my lethargy in my everyday habits.
In exchange for my promise never to write about my shaving habits again, perhaps you could do me a favour. My wife is going away for a few days so I’ll be in town without my emergency warning system. If you do happen to notice soap on my earlobes— even if it’s from ordinary soap and not from shaving cream—discreetly let me know, will you? I would also be grateful if you saved your burst of laughter till I’m out of earshot.
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