When I was a young lad, my father asked me if I knew how to shave. I had watched him and my grandfather many times, so I thought I did, and told him so. Handing me his Fatboy, he asked me to show him. So I splashed some water on my face, lathered up from his puck and eagerly commenced with my first pass up, cutting myself up nicely after only a few strokes. He waited for me to finish before telling me what I did wrong - not enough water, lather too thin, too much pressure, angle too steep, no regard for my grain.
Four or five days later I tried again with the same poor result. Disheartened and bewildered, I started out of the bathroom. He stopped me asking if I knew Einstein's definition of insanity. I did not, so he told me ("doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result") and I didn't feel any better. Before picking up the razor for my third shave, he asked what I would do differently. After responding that I wasn't sure, he took the razor and carefully handed me a cork with an DE blade embedded into side and told me to try it. Since I loved my Dad, I did, and it gave me the worst shave of my life. My lather turned pink, blood dripped down my cheeks and the sink streamed with red. My face was a mess and it was many days after that before I was able to shave again.
In the interim, I did a lot of thinking about angles and pressure. Holding the cork in my hands, it occurred to me how I might reduce blade pressure by holding it lightly on the ends between my thumb and index finger. In front of a mirror, I looked closely at my beard, feeling the direction of growth with my hands. A few days later, I was ready to shave again and did so this time with a much better result. Although it still wasn't anywhere perfect and there were many nicks and plenty of razor burn, I completed my first full shave. Looking over at my Dad and seeing the pride in his eyes, I immediately understood how well he knew me and the wisdom of his logic. Although my Dad passed a few years back, I'll never forget him or how he taught me to shave.
Four or five days later I tried again with the same poor result. Disheartened and bewildered, I started out of the bathroom. He stopped me asking if I knew Einstein's definition of insanity. I did not, so he told me ("doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result") and I didn't feel any better. Before picking up the razor for my third shave, he asked what I would do differently. After responding that I wasn't sure, he took the razor and carefully handed me a cork with an DE blade embedded into side and told me to try it. Since I loved my Dad, I did, and it gave me the worst shave of my life. My lather turned pink, blood dripped down my cheeks and the sink streamed with red. My face was a mess and it was many days after that before I was able to shave again.
In the interim, I did a lot of thinking about angles and pressure. Holding the cork in my hands, it occurred to me how I might reduce blade pressure by holding it lightly on the ends between my thumb and index finger. In front of a mirror, I looked closely at my beard, feeling the direction of growth with my hands. A few days later, I was ready to shave again and did so this time with a much better result. Although it still wasn't anywhere perfect and there were many nicks and plenty of razor burn, I completed my first full shave. Looking over at my Dad and seeing the pride in his eyes, I immediately understood how well he knew me and the wisdom of his logic. Although my Dad passed a few years back, I'll never forget him or how he taught me to shave.
