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 Beyond
the ken of Gillette's anonymous shaves is an experience
every man ought to have. Go try wet shaving.
I'm
half the man my father is. He came up the hard way,
I had it relatively easy. He's made some wise investments;
I'm yet to gain my freedom from credit card companies.
He still shaves with his 20-year-old double-edged 'Butterfly'
razor while, in spite of being fully aware of the deviousness
of marketing mavens, I'm quite keen to check out the
Fusion, Gillette's five-blade marvel.
His razor, a Gillette, is wielded at the tail-end of
a morning routine - after the walk, the frothy tea and
after the newspaper has been read - and it is always
a wet shave. Sitting in office, I can still catch the
faint whiff of Godrej Lime mingling with the aroma of
my mother's breakfast, and still hear the brusque scrape
of metal on skin.
My first shave in life was a wet shave with that very
same razor. After that Gillette and its plastic conveniences
took over. Until last month when, about 15 years later,
I was so inspired by this wonderful article on the joy
of wet shaving by Christianity Today's Andy Crouch that
I headed out into the labyrinthine streets of Mumbai's
Bhendi Bazaar to equip myself with a double-edged razor
and a grand shaving brush.
Crouch, a convert to wet shaving, asks of us to jettison
the monotonous safety of the cartridge razor and the
electric shaver and immerse ourselves in an experience
that started the journey towards being rare in 1971
when Gillette introduced the twin-blade razor.
"The double-edged razor," says Crouch, "is
not safe, but it is good… It does not exist to
underwrite our fuzzy, lazy, half-asleep lives. It requires
something of us - discipline, skill, patience. The fundamental
premise of the blade is that we can learn to handle
fearsome things in delicate ways."
Thankfully, there are a few men like Crouch who believe
or have discovered that "with a little time and
practice, shaving with a single blade can deliver an
extraordinary shave, and is great fun besides."
There are blogs run by these shave geeks (try NBC's
Corey Greenberg's shaveblog.com) that feature sweet
stuff like the 1960s Gillette Toggle, the 195 Adjustable,
shaving scuttles, Simpson shaving brushes and high-end
English shaving creams.
I reckon that like with those frequent eruptions of
retro trends in cars, this too is about mankind getting
excessively sentimental about an uncomplicated, more
sincere past. But such is the lot of men with bleak
futures like ours.
Wet shaving these days, says Crouch, is an activity
for the affluent, but it more or less evens out in the
end when you consider that the cartridges cost considerably
more than the razor. So, a stainless steel Merkur double-edged
razor (Rs 1,500 approx) will last you a lifetime (the
blades don't cost much anyway), but just how much did
you fritter away last year on those Mach 3 cartridges?
I was sold on the solid Taylor of Bond Street 'Butterfly'
Double-Edge Safety Razor I encountered at classicshaving.com.
It costs a lot of money and so, I hoped, while I criss-crossed
Mumbai, to at least find a razor with a remote likeness
to the Taylor.
 Sadly,
they don't need to make them like they used to. I was
offered plastic double-edge razors and flimsy ones made
of dubious metal, and ultimately had to settle on a
brand called Klik (Rs 35). Klik's razor was made of
brass with a chromium coating and it felt a lot more
substantial than the other trash. I was luckier with
the shaving brush, though, and found myself an Italian
Omega (Rs 250) that appeared to have natural bristles.
Badger hair it was not, but it would have to do.
The next morning - it was a Sunday - I woke up a little
earlier than usual, had a hot shower and stood in front
of the mirror. The water in the bath mug was warm and
my new Omega was placed alongside the razor. I rinsed
my face and got ready to lather up. For the second time
in about 15 years, I noticed an air of expectancy around
myself as a routine chore acquired ceremonial trappings.
The procedure was elaborate, but each act had a purpose
and nothing was vacuous. My Omega must have been real
badger hair because I've never seen Palmolive foam this
magnificently. Then I picked up the razor.
"There are two ways to look at this moment,"
says Crouch. "You can say that no one in his right
mind should wield a double-edged razor half-asleep.
Or you can say that no one in his right mind can stay
half-asleep when he picks up a double-edged razor…
as I apply the razor at an acute angle to my cheek next
to my right ear, I suddenly become gloriously awake.
Ten minutes into my day, I am paying utmost attention...
As I run the blade down my cheek it makes a tiny and
distinct plink with each hair that it encounters, amplified
by the tension of the blade held in the steel jaws of
the razor. This experience simply doesn't happen with
a cartridge razor, let alone a whirring electric shaver.
Only a single sharp blade can give you the sound of
every one of the hairs on your head being numbered."
Crouch doesn't need my affirmation, but I'll second
that. For the nine-odd minutes I spent lathering and
shaving, I was engrossed in it. This is probably what
Zen feels like, I thought, while getting my wrist to
shake hands with the blade's menace. Being a novice,
the angle at which the razor was applied to my cheek
kept shifting constantly, as the rich lather muffled
the chruunks of my two-day old stubble. The unforgiving
blade got me around the tricky areas, and there were
splotches of bright red on the chin and neck. But from
the time I picked up the razor to when I washed the
residual lather from my face, I was, as Crouch says,
very awake and yet oblivious of the general clatter
of life. A cartridge-razor shave in comparison feels
contemptibly anonymous.
The double-edged razor demanded total focus. In return,
it presented me with possibly my best shave yet. The
more delicate spots around my face stung, but it was
the sting of freshness and it lasted well into the afternoon.
So, am I going to convert? Not really. My wet shave
took about 15 minutes and that is valuable time on a
Monday morning. But I hope to wedge it into my Sabbath
Day routine when I can afford to ignore the obsequiously
efficient Mach 3 and spend 20 minutes with an instrument
that demands respect. On that day of rest, while the
rich tinker with their vintage cars or puff on their
Havanas, I shall do what men of lesser means ought to
- lather up in fragrant English shaving cream, unsheath
a Merkur and set it to my face.
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