The milestones came and went: conquering the neckbeard, first bloodless shave, discovery and implementation of the trimmer. The fads and trends ensued as well: of particular note was my attempted emulation of the immortal Marco Hietala, bass player of Nightwish:
On him, it's a flowing fountain of hirsute heaven, a keratinized relic of Viking glory, a testament to the land of roaring gales and primal poetry that is Finland. On me, it looked like a misplaced thatch of pubic hair, perhaps having migrated for the weather.
Upon introduction to the fire service, a clean shaven face went from a wedding-induced rarity to a daily necessity; even if the air packs didn't require it, the culture of the fire service regards beards with the same steady distaste with which it favors stick-frame construction and lift assists. Ever since, the bushy bearded phases that I call "Amish Glory" come and go with my proximity to structural firefighting. It was during one such sojourn that I found myself with a beard that tickled my nipples and, for reasons that mostly still elude me to this day, a ravening need to rid myself of it.
Myself, That Eric Guy, and Izzy, two other deckhands, were in the locker room at the local Y, where the schooner captains had a standing agreement to let us shower so our tidal musk and sea-smacked faces wouldn't scare off passengers. Watching as a cast-off nose hair trimmer's single AAA battery gasped its last pathetic volt against my salt-streaked mane, he offered up use of his safety razor. With a grin and a warning that it might hurt, he handed me an implement not unlike this:
I use the phrase "safety razor" and people sometimes gather the impression that I'm referring to a cartridge number, a Gillette with detachable plastic heads that pop off the handle, with seventeen factory-sharp blades set at 42.439 degrees that costs about four hundred dollars for a three pack. Perhaps this comes from use of the word "safety". They're partially right in that the safety razor was developed in contrast to the straight razor, that storied tool of rugged mountain men, psychopathic bank robbers, and the nation of Italy.
But my friends, if placed on a sliding scale, one that meters precision, control, elegance, and the conceivable possibility of dismembering the careless, rest assured that the safety razor falls much closer to its vigorous ancestor than its anemic descendant. The safety razor sports exactly one single- or double-edged razor blade suspended between precisely tooled pieces of solid, cold metal. It is exposed to the air, devoid of plastic guides, where the only difference between a frictionless face and a bloody stream is a steady hand and a practiced angle. The safety razor speaks in staccato strokes, demands careful preparation, and rewards mindful implementation with a smooth and fresh visage the likes of which once graced only marble.
There are plenty of ways to take the hair off of your face, and plenty of reasons to pick one. Sometimes simplicity or efficiency take the day; I won't deny that an electronic foil buzzer suits both. But sometimes that day asks for a slower start, a period of time that demands presence in the moment. A keen blade is excellent motivation to focus--and its rewards are, frankly, worth taking at face value.
Listening to: John Legend & The Roots: Wake Up Everybody
Drinking: Fiore Distillery Straight Rye Whiskey
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