- Joined
- Oct 8, 2006
- Messages
- 2,097
I’ve never cruised this subforum. My beard is older than Bladeforums, so it never seemed urgent.
I’m writing in case…would anyone be interested in the days when straight razors were still commonplace?
When I was a kid, the paternal family gathered at my grandfather’s on Christmas Eve. I had seven uncles and one aunt, so the house was crowded. One of the uncles put on a Santa suit. He exclaimed, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and distributed presents from a red sack. This was actually a present exchange, not that the kids thought of it that way. “Thank you, Santa!”
It was at such a party that my grandfather told a secret. Just to the boys who were eager to grow up. Back then—and I expect today—you’re first shave was a rite of passage. “I’ll tell you how to get your beard started. First smear cow manure on the outside of your face. Then smear chicken manure inside your mouth. They work together. The cow manure pulls and the chicken manure pushes. You’ll sprout whiskers in no time.” I never tested his recipe.
Even without expert advice, I eventually sprouted whiskers. Not all at once, mind you. Just the normal adolescent sneak attack. Once that sort of thing starts, the writing is on the wall. I asked for a straight razor for Christmas.
By then cut throat razors were old fashioned. Used by barbers and older men. Safety razors had almost swept the field. But I had old fashioned tastes myself. I’d certainly grown up seeing straight razors in medicine cabinets or dresser drawers. Come that Christmas Eve, Santa gave me a razor. “Ho Ho!”
I was proud to show off was my new razor. So one of my uncles gave me my first lesson in shaving. Other adult males watched the show, offering their own advice and commentary. Those uncles were all veterans the Hitler war. Using a straight razor was an essential male skill when they were growing up.
There were no suds involved. Brushes and soap and stropping were never mentioned. My first shaving lesson only involved using the razor. One kibitzer assured me, “You’re going to be sore in the morning!” I didn’t complain. To my way of thinking, no other aspect of shaving mattered more than learning to use the razor. Especially the part about spilling no blood in the process. That razor was sharp out of the box. Even dry, my youthful face fuzz was no match for it.
I don’t remember any details. The lesson is overlaid by the years. It never stuck in my memory the way Granddad’s whisker recipe did. It must have been a good lesson. I shaved with that razor for years, before I grew a beaver.
When the immediate family opened presents on Christmas Day, I got a brush and the rest. My Dad was the one who taught me to lather a brush and use a strop.
I’m writing in case…would anyone be interested in the days when straight razors were still commonplace?
When I was a kid, the paternal family gathered at my grandfather’s on Christmas Eve. I had seven uncles and one aunt, so the house was crowded. One of the uncles put on a Santa suit. He exclaimed, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and distributed presents from a red sack. This was actually a present exchange, not that the kids thought of it that way. “Thank you, Santa!”
It was at such a party that my grandfather told a secret. Just to the boys who were eager to grow up. Back then—and I expect today—you’re first shave was a rite of passage. “I’ll tell you how to get your beard started. First smear cow manure on the outside of your face. Then smear chicken manure inside your mouth. They work together. The cow manure pulls and the chicken manure pushes. You’ll sprout whiskers in no time.” I never tested his recipe.
Even without expert advice, I eventually sprouted whiskers. Not all at once, mind you. Just the normal adolescent sneak attack. Once that sort of thing starts, the writing is on the wall. I asked for a straight razor for Christmas.
By then cut throat razors were old fashioned. Used by barbers and older men. Safety razors had almost swept the field. But I had old fashioned tastes myself. I’d certainly grown up seeing straight razors in medicine cabinets or dresser drawers. Come that Christmas Eve, Santa gave me a razor. “Ho Ho!”
I was proud to show off was my new razor. So one of my uncles gave me my first lesson in shaving. Other adult males watched the show, offering their own advice and commentary. Those uncles were all veterans the Hitler war. Using a straight razor was an essential male skill when they were growing up.
There were no suds involved. Brushes and soap and stropping were never mentioned. My first shaving lesson only involved using the razor. One kibitzer assured me, “You’re going to be sore in the morning!” I didn’t complain. To my way of thinking, no other aspect of shaving mattered more than learning to use the razor. Especially the part about spilling no blood in the process. That razor was sharp out of the box. Even dry, my youthful face fuzz was no match for it.
I don’t remember any details. The lesson is overlaid by the years. It never stuck in my memory the way Granddad’s whisker recipe did. It must have been a good lesson. I shaved with that razor for years, before I grew a beaver.
When the immediate family opened presents on Christmas Day, I got a brush and the rest. My Dad was the one who taught me to lather a brush and use a strop.
Last edited:
