Dear John Torp,

 

    I know that my story wouldn't exactly fit in with your barber stories, as it is two pages long single spaced, but it means a lot to me, and I know that you would enjoy reading it.  I've appreciated the quality of classic barber shops for most of my life, and have always chose them over the more impersonal shops with high turnover of employees and where quality comes second to speed.  Through my own barber here in Altanta, Georgia over in the states I acquired a straight razor to extend that quality of cut and shave to my own home... This led to interesting results, and I would like to share my experience with everyone who might apreciate what I have to say.  I leave you with my story and hope that you enjoy reading about my first experience with a straight razor.

 

Johnathon Fitzpatrick

 

 

 

The Hand of Murphy

 

After my first experience with a True Razor, my face feels like it doesn’t exist anymore.  Murphy’s Law states:  If anything can go wrong, it will.  The hand of Murphy’s Law holds a straight razor, and my face must be his canvas.  I’ve accumulated in half an hour the nicks, cuts, and jabs of blood that it painfully took me to earn for the good part of a decade in which I have been shaving.  The Nick Relief Powder I received with my Morris Straight Razor does wonders to clot the blood which doesn’t appear till I have forgotten what I did wrong, but it also has done wonders for my tolerance and perception of ‘necessary pain’.

 

I had been dreading and anticipating this moment for days, weeks, even years.  Years ago I wanted one, but my father said you only needed a straight razor if you had rough skin or a lot of facial hair, both of which are things I lack.  My skin is still as sensitive as a baby and usually nobody can notice if I go for 2 days without a shave.  But I have an inborn sense of adventure and a very aggressive streak which gets most of my tools broken.  Let me tell you about some of my ‘tools’. 

 

My computer is the slowest thing I’ve ever used, because I run a dozen memory-consuming programs 24 hours a day, and I push it far beyond what its creators had in mind.  I’m downloading tv shows in one program, music in another, and MS Word always ready to type.  I have my web browser Firefox running 6 browsers tabs, all continually updating, with live weather forecasts in one corner and a music bar in the other controlling three different audio programs, all of which are wired with alarms and other features designed to cripple my computer and help me achieve that state of instant gratification, and for that it moves slower than a 20 year-old computer.  I’ve killed two car engines from pushing them to their limits.  The second engine, a 225 Slant-6, has been claimed as being un-killable, a perfect engine for my aggressive nature.  It died after only a few months under my control.  My iPod (which is always maxed out – of course) is covered in scratches and cannot get along with my computer because I tried to shove too much music into it.  My cell-phone actually still works after having suffered countless falls, however, because I’ve used it so much the screen died, so I dial pushing menu buttons from memory and guesswork, and I answer without the aid of caller ID.  Even my trusty watch, which has seen me thru countless skateboarding accidents, shattered during an overly aggressive game of kick-ball.  So now is Murphy’s chance to get vengeance on my bucking the system, running everything in my life at the limit and beyond for as long as possible.  Now he’s got himself a straight razor.

 

I unfold the straight razor like a pocket knife and grab the black plastic handle like I’ve been shown, looking at it thru the mirror and closely examining the target and wishing this could be easy.  I begin on the right side of my face, being right-handed and having gone thru the exact same motions every day for years; my steady hands trained to move in a mechanical dance practiced under the morning haze of sleepiness.  Not this time.  Wide awake and fearful, with unsure hands I begin.  Fiddling with a few angles, trying to see around the handle to where I will actually cut – I mean shave; I try to figure out the best way to start.  I begin at my sideburns, working my way down with light, smooth strokes, just like I’ve always done.  The sound of hairs crackling off like Velcro ripping apart sounds reassuringly familiar as I continue moving the blade down my cheek.  Then I remember the only advice my barber, my supplier of this weapon of facial destruction, gave me, “always. use. Short. Strokes."  Already it’s too late as I see back at the start a little sliver of red peeking out near my sideburn. 

 

The thing about straight razors (in my opinion) is they are designed to be the sharpest blades in existence.  I have a Morris Flamingo, which uses machine-honed Personna interchangeable blades.  Unlike the old-timey blades, which required constant sharpening and honing on a special whet stone and a leather strop that strangely looks a lot like a strap of leather, these babies are the ultimate geometric definition of ‘razor sharp’ on a microscopic scale – Instant pain right out of the blue box of  ‘hair shaper blades’.  Continuing, I move on to under my ear and behind my jaw.  At this point I stop and admire the distance I’ve covered without pain on my first run fencing with Murphy.  All looks good as my razor hovers over my cheek, but then I lower it and the side of my neck is revealed to be lined with several red cuts oozing blood.  The only thing that comes to mind is the bloodied back of a person being lashed with a whip. 

 

Freaking out, I set down the razor and fiddle with the vial of chalky powder that I’ve been guaranteed I’ll need.  For a brief moment it’s like rubbing salt into a wound, but then the pain stops and I’m not bleeding.  I stare at my reflection grimacing back at me and I realize the worst part is over.  Chiding myself for being so stupid, I move on and, with the smallest strokes I’ve ever made, work on my chin and over to my left cheek.  The chin isn’t as tight as the rest of the face, and I give up on it for the moment after about three more bloody nicks.  Strangely, the left cheek is left unscathed as I finish my first pass.  I stop to check my face again and I realize that somebody could actually trace the path across my face where I shaved by the number of cuts.  The right side is just speckled with red, powdery blotches while the cuts seem to trickle away following across the jaw and going up the left side only beautifully shaved skin is left. 

 

I stop after many short, light, slow, careful strokes everywhere else I missed on my first run, with my upper lip being the crowning achievement without even a burr, let alone a nick showing.  At this I want to just walk away and call it a shave, but my habits demand one more thing.  My mind flicks back to that memorable scene in Home Alone of Macaulay Culkin screaming his head off with his hands on his cheeks as I reach for the Gillette cool-gel aftershave that has been the favorite part of my morning routine.  I fear that it will no longer be in a moment.  Knowing there’s no turning back, I rub it in thick and hard and the pain, while being even worse than the magic blood powder, goes away quickly and my skin now feels surprisingly cool and tingly.  I let out a sigh of relief, thankful that after-shave is still a good thing.

 

I finally appreciate the fact that after-shave exists for the sole purpose of making skin feel good after Murphy’s had his way.  The sensation I have as I walk around afterwards is something I’ve never experienced before.  I feel lighter, cleaner, and prouder than I have ever felt in my life.  I am well aware that it takes balls and stupidity to drag an open razor against my face knowing I’m definitely going to get cut at some point, but I’ve made it out with the closest shave of my life and the knowledge that I won’t need another one for a week.  Part of me knows this whole experience is meant as a lesson against my aggressive impatience.  Part of me knows it is meant to teach me to be gentle with my things, precise with my goals, and to take life a little at a time, rather than all at once.  Going out, unable to hide the battle scars everyone will notice, I realize that I will have to spend the rest of my life learning my lesson, one shave at a time.