A cautionary tale on buying shaving soap.
Imagine... You’re out and about at a summer craft fare, farmers market, fete, or just antiquing, and you come across a range of attractively packaged, locally produced soaps and unguents, all claiming ‘natural’, ‘lovingly made by a caring artisan who lives not far from here’, and, wanting to support local crafts, you buy some. It’s not especially cheap either, but you feel good and wholesome and fuzzy, and eat a vegan burger to celebrate and show you genuinely are the caring type.
Next day you leap into the bathroom, eager to try your latest purchase. You do your shaving pre-op, bloom your soap, soak your brush, and set to in the lather making phase. Looks promising: but the second you get this stuff on your skin, it’s clear that it’s foam rather than lather, and evaporating faster than Usain Bolt on a victory lap. You try adding more soap, more water. You work that lather like Sweeney Todd’s deranged older brother. Yet all you get is weak, vanishing, nice smelling suds that have fewer lubricating properties than sand.
So beware locally produced shaving soaps. Like that celebratory vegan burger, they look and smell great, are virtuous as hell, but ultimately a concoction devoid of meat or any real nutritional value, and likely assembled by someone who, while well-meaning, hasn’t really ever shaved with a proper shaving soap or cream that creates a thick, slick, lasting lather.
This is my second disappointment with a craft shaving soap; I shall stick to those producers genuinely dedicated to the art of making good shaving soap from now on.
Posed by the model. But that's the offending article, centre frame.
Imagine... You’re out and about at a summer craft fare, farmers market, fete, or just antiquing, and you come across a range of attractively packaged, locally produced soaps and unguents, all claiming ‘natural’, ‘lovingly made by a caring artisan who lives not far from here’, and, wanting to support local crafts, you buy some. It’s not especially cheap either, but you feel good and wholesome and fuzzy, and eat a vegan burger to celebrate and show you genuinely are the caring type.
Next day you leap into the bathroom, eager to try your latest purchase. You do your shaving pre-op, bloom your soap, soak your brush, and set to in the lather making phase. Looks promising: but the second you get this stuff on your skin, it’s clear that it’s foam rather than lather, and evaporating faster than Usain Bolt on a victory lap. You try adding more soap, more water. You work that lather like Sweeney Todd’s deranged older brother. Yet all you get is weak, vanishing, nice smelling suds that have fewer lubricating properties than sand.
So beware locally produced shaving soaps. Like that celebratory vegan burger, they look and smell great, are virtuous as hell, but ultimately a concoction devoid of meat or any real nutritional value, and likely assembled by someone who, while well-meaning, hasn’t really ever shaved with a proper shaving soap or cream that creates a thick, slick, lasting lather.
This is my second disappointment with a craft shaving soap; I shall stick to those producers genuinely dedicated to the art of making good shaving soap from now on.
Posed by the model. But that's the offending article, centre frame.