A few weeks ago I came across a couple of razors and a brush that belonged to my dad. I was excited to find them, clean them up a little and put them in the rotation.
But something struck me as ironic about that. Daddy had two razors his entire life and only two brushes. He got a puck of Williams Shaving Soap for his birthday in July and one in his stocking for Christmas, along with a package or two of Gillette blades. Those were both gifts from Mom. She liked his smooth face, so she made sure he was well supplied with sharp blades that kept him smooth. I am reasonably sure those were not the only times of year when he got new stuff; if he ran out of soap in September I am sure he didn't "dry-shave" until Santa Claus came. But I am certain he only had the two razors and two brushes. I remember as a little kid waking up early each morning, hearing the water in the sink followed by the klinking of the brush against the sides of the coffee cup while he lathered up the brush. Now, Daddy had thin skin, being of fair-haired Irish descent, and later on in life (sometime in the 1980s probably) he went with the Trac-II and the Mach 3, accompanied by the ubiquitous can of Foamy. He just said they felt better and he had fewer nicks and cuts. Then the gifts were altered accordingly and the old Gillettes and brushes found their way to the bottom of his inexpensive shaving kit. I say it was inexpensive; knowing him and his penchant for keeping something and using it until it was worn to nothing, it MIGHT have been one of the original Charles Doppelt Dopp-Kits. Who knows? It literally crumbled apart when we cleaned out his bathroom after his death.
I learned to shave with one of the Gillettes and I honestly can't remember which one. But being the rebellious teen type it did not take me long to move to the more modern and better (so I thought at the time) multi-blade whisker whackers.
It was a strong sense of nostalgia that brought me back to traditional shaving with a DE razor, a puck of soap in a coffee cup and a brush. But like a lot of things that my nostalgia led me to (pocketknives, fountain pens, baseball gloves) I was bitten by the collecting bug and wound up with numerous razors, brushes, soaps, after shaves, etc.
And it struck me as ironic: Nostalgia for the simplicity that I missed and cherished led me to collect a razor for every day of a fortnight, and enough blades to last a lifetime, not to mention a brush and soap for every day of the week and every mood I am in. I overshot my mark on simplicity, didn't I? These days I have to take time to carefully consider which brush will I choose today, which soap and which razor. My dad's simple choice was whether to shave or not, and that decision was usually made for him because of how much he enjoyed Mom's kisses.
I would imagine that my dad would shake his head with a wry grin and ask me a pertinent question such as how many razors can I shave with at the same time. I would have a hard time explaining the allure of it all, I suppose, but we would both be OK with that, I think. He would just clap me on the shoulder and tell me how glad he was that my life was so much more affluent than his. And I would thank him for all his hard work and sacrifice that made my life so much better, with so much luxury and affluence that I could enjoy complicating even the simple task of shaving.
But something struck me as ironic about that. Daddy had two razors his entire life and only two brushes. He got a puck of Williams Shaving Soap for his birthday in July and one in his stocking for Christmas, along with a package or two of Gillette blades. Those were both gifts from Mom. She liked his smooth face, so she made sure he was well supplied with sharp blades that kept him smooth. I am reasonably sure those were not the only times of year when he got new stuff; if he ran out of soap in September I am sure he didn't "dry-shave" until Santa Claus came. But I am certain he only had the two razors and two brushes. I remember as a little kid waking up early each morning, hearing the water in the sink followed by the klinking of the brush against the sides of the coffee cup while he lathered up the brush. Now, Daddy had thin skin, being of fair-haired Irish descent, and later on in life (sometime in the 1980s probably) he went with the Trac-II and the Mach 3, accompanied by the ubiquitous can of Foamy. He just said they felt better and he had fewer nicks and cuts. Then the gifts were altered accordingly and the old Gillettes and brushes found their way to the bottom of his inexpensive shaving kit. I say it was inexpensive; knowing him and his penchant for keeping something and using it until it was worn to nothing, it MIGHT have been one of the original Charles Doppelt Dopp-Kits. Who knows? It literally crumbled apart when we cleaned out his bathroom after his death.
I learned to shave with one of the Gillettes and I honestly can't remember which one. But being the rebellious teen type it did not take me long to move to the more modern and better (so I thought at the time) multi-blade whisker whackers.
It was a strong sense of nostalgia that brought me back to traditional shaving with a DE razor, a puck of soap in a coffee cup and a brush. But like a lot of things that my nostalgia led me to (pocketknives, fountain pens, baseball gloves) I was bitten by the collecting bug and wound up with numerous razors, brushes, soaps, after shaves, etc.
And it struck me as ironic: Nostalgia for the simplicity that I missed and cherished led me to collect a razor for every day of a fortnight, and enough blades to last a lifetime, not to mention a brush and soap for every day of the week and every mood I am in. I overshot my mark on simplicity, didn't I? These days I have to take time to carefully consider which brush will I choose today, which soap and which razor. My dad's simple choice was whether to shave or not, and that decision was usually made for him because of how much he enjoyed Mom's kisses.
I would imagine that my dad would shake his head with a wry grin and ask me a pertinent question such as how many razors can I shave with at the same time. I would have a hard time explaining the allure of it all, I suppose, but we would both be OK with that, I think. He would just clap me on the shoulder and tell me how glad he was that my life was so much more affluent than his. And I would thank him for all his hard work and sacrifice that made my life so much better, with so much luxury and affluence that I could enjoy complicating even the simple task of shaving.