As though the time might have been yesterday, I still remember Father's
shaving habits and the effect they once had on me. From the time when
I was three (1910) or thereabouts, his nightly routine intrigued my
fancy and often I watched while he removed his whiskers.
Since our house had no private bathroom, Father shaved in the kitchen,
using the family wash basin located not far from the woodburning range.
After pouring hot water from the teakettle, he thoroughly washed
his face and whisker growth, rubbing briskly to soften a stubborn
beard.
When he used a mug, bar soap, and brush to produce a sudsy lather,
I watched, enchanted with the process.
Satisfied with the preliminary procedure, he opened a folding razor
(an instrument seldom used today, except perhaps in some barber shops).
To me the blade looked formidable.
Before beginning to shave, Father whetted the delicate cutting edge,
using a leather strap fastened at one end to a nearby wall, moving
the blade back and forth across the polished leather surface with
a “zit-zat” sound.
After a number of decisive strokes, he selected a single hair and
pulled it from his head. Holding it between a thumb and forefinger,
he cautiously tested the razor cutting edge.
At this point in the shaving procedure, my fascination fell to a new
low. When Father started to remove his whiskers, the blade, to me,
looked both dangerous and threatening.
Often he would get through the entire process with no more than a
nick or two. If he wasn't especially careful, a deeper incision bled
profusely. Usually Mother came to his rescue and applied a piece of
wetted tissue paper to staunch each flow. Band-aids had yet to be
invented.
Sometimes, Mother held the kerosene lamp while Father squinted at
his reflection in a wavy miffor surface before proceeding to remove
recently-lathered whiskers.
Each time whisker-bearing lather accumulated on the razor, Father
wiped the surplus on an out-dated mail-order catalog page.
After removing beard from the upper portion of his face, Father elevated
his chin to scrape a lathered growth accumulation from his neck, a
crucial portion of the shaving procedure; and, fearful for his safety,
I watched each stroke with considerable apprehension, hoping to see
no blood flow, which it sometimes did.
Father's shaving method left me in a quandry, especially when I became
an adolescent and realized my face, too, would grow whiskers and require
a beard to be removed. I had no desire to follow his example.
If I were to use the same method Father practiced, would I be able
to use the folding razor with the same facility he displayed? The
prospect looked extremely doubtful, as well as dangerous and frightening.
I did have two alternatives, but neither appealed to me. I could
use a professional barber. Steaming towels and skillful razor handling
might make shaving less trying and uncertain. However, without an
income could I afford even the modest sum charged for each shave,
much less for an extended period of time?
Someone suggested growing a beard, an idea I somehow found revolting.
I didn't want to look like Grandfather or any of the old set.
Even though some businessmen or professionals starting a new career
grew beards to make them look older, I wanted no part of facial hair
adornment.
Not long before the first World War, when I was still in high school,
a new invention put my shaving fears to rest. Another troubled individual,
King C. Gillette, while shaving himself one morning, believed there
was a better method. His discontent with a straight razor urged him
to invent the world's first safety razor, thus eliminating the ever-present
danger posed by an unprotected blade.
Weary of constant indecision and incipient fuzzy facial hair, I purchased
an early Gillette product and shaved without either fear or foreboding.
Even though dulled blades required replacement, I still managed the
modest purchase price.
In the 1940s, shaving lather, packaged under pressure, further reduced
beard removal time and inconvenience. The brush, cake soap, and mug
I used for years were replaced with the new convenience.
Little did I know then of more progress in the offing. Small, fractional-horsepower
electric motors, in the late 1940s, led to the invention of electric
shavers, a beard-removal method becoming increasingly accepted.
One manufacturer, Remington, a forward-looking company, guaranteed
their product “to shave as close as a blade or your money back.” Other
enterprising producers include Sunbeam, Braun, and Norelco.
It was quite some time before I accepted the new shaving method. Father
used one first.
One day, in the mid-1950s, after he retired, while visiting in our
home, I heard a foreign sound coming from the bathroom area. Later
in the day I saw his new possession, a far cry from the straight razor
he used for many years. “My electric shaver does a good job,” he said,
rubbing a newly-shaved chin. “It doesn't nick my skin like the straight
razor occasionally did.” I noddingly agreed. The straight razor I
once dreaded for individual use, had been replaced with much safer
shaving equipment.