My dad used to tell me about how he would sit on his father’s (Martin) lap as my grandfather prepared to shave. They developed a ritual every day in the summer and on weekends in the winter.
Grandpa would sit down and unfold his kit: straight razor, soap, brush, mirror, and razor strop. My dad pulled up a stool near the wash basin and watched as the razor was ripped up and down the strop a dozen times on each edge until it his father could cut a piece of newspaper by dropping the page onto the blade. Dad spent the sharpening time tearing ever smaller scraps of newsprint so his father could show off how sharp the steel had become.
After the strop was folded Grandpa used the fresh blade to cut a scrap of cardboard, which Dad always reminds me, was nothing more than thick pressed paper. He’d carefully fashion a giant replica of his razor. When I say giant, I don’t mean something a Mardi Gras head would use to shave, rather it was huge the way Outback Steakhouse steak knives are giant compared to household steak knives.
Grandpa passed the “blade” to my dad who would inspect it while Grandpa lathered some soap in a bowl and moistened his beard brush. He handed the bowl to my father and then sat patiently while Dad applied shaving soap lather to Grandpa’s rough beard. I come from a line of very rough bearded men (and, sad to say, in some cases, the women).
Grandpa was an amazing and wonderful man and it saddens me that I have but two memories of him that belong to me.
1) I walked up behind him where he stood with his back to me between my brother’s racing homer pigeon loft and Dad’s shop. It startled him and he spun around with his dick in his hand as he was finishing a covert pee before visiting. I fell backward and hit my head on a cinderblock. The scar is about two centimeters long and can be seen any time you wish as I have inherited baldness along with the stubbly face hair. (yup, so have some of the women...sorry Liza)
2) He rolled his own ciggies and made quite a show of his workmanship—something carried over from being a fine carpenter. I was sitting in his lap breathing in his tobacco-ness and aftershave as he rolled a cigarette with one hand and held me on his knee with the other. It was like watching someone pull a camel through the eye of a needle one-handed, and to my five year old eyes his hands bested anything I could imagine other than when my mom made doughnuts.
When the lathering was complete Grandpa would invite Dad up into his lap. Dad said he’d climb up and his father would try to smear lather on him with a hug. They’d play for a bit before the real business at hand took place.
Grandpa held the mirror to help Dad shave the lather off. Dad was only allowed to look in the mirror, using the cardboard razor to push and spread the lather until it was all gone. Grandpa told Dad it helped soften his beard but Dad said he knew that was just a story, that the ritual had more to do with them being alone together doing things that men do.
For our daughter Liza’s birthday we bought her older brother Adam a gift. I don’t think he really needed it, but he appreciated having something to open and show his little sister. We bought him a child’s shaving kit. It’s got a mini mirror, razor, beard brush and comes complete with a foaming bath cream.
A few weeks before her first birthday I told Adam about my Grandpa and how my dad used to shave him as a boy. He didn’t say he wanted to shave me like I anticipated. He said that he wanted to shave. My thirty month old and I have been shaving together ever since.
I had my first real shave at age nine. Thank you, Rich, for making a place where we can share words and stories about facial hair.
