When journalists write tongue-in-cheek, first-person stories in which they participate in some exotic activity, the tendency is to play up their incredible incompetence at said activity. It's a cloying and cheap practice. So, let me assure you, I am really and truly awful at shaving.
As a teen, I sliced off a large portion of my right nostril. My father regularly ran to catch the bus with the better part of a roll of toilet paper affixed to his bleeding cheeks. And my grandfather was the only Eskenazi brother -- and there were many -- to not open up a babershop in Brooklyn.
So when your humble narrator was offered a chance to take in ace barber Shorty Maniace's straight-edge razor tutorial at Mystic Hair, I didn't bother to think, "What's the worst thing that could happen?" That was all too obvious.
I'd taken the prior eight weeks off from shaving and, other than
resembling a neolithic reporter ("Three mastodon tramplings -- that make
trend!"), all was well. When I arrived at the barbershop, Maniace trimmed my scraggly visage down to a Ratso Rizzo look that a straight-edged razor could easily cleave through.
Listening to Maniace pontificate on male grooming and the proper manner in which to hold a deadly weapon to your throat was a treat. It was akin to overhearing Don Zimmer talk baseball or Carl Sagan explain the cosmos. Maniace traveled the world with a barber's eye, getting a shave every two days so he could add to his arsenal of grooming practices. Through the course of a two-hour lesson for a handful of local scribes, he rattled off numerous grips to use on the cutthroat razor and various ways in which to twist and tighten your face for maximum efficacy while shaving.
Will you get a closer shave with a straight-edge razor than a Mach 3? No, actually. And it'll take astoundingly longer to do -- with the added bonus of possibly landing in a bed next to poor Bryan Stow. So why do this? For Maniace, using a straight-edge razor -- and taking your time while doing so -- is a vestige of a calmer, less frenetic era. A time when men weren't in such a mad rush and didn't -- like so many generations of my family -- race out of the house while dotted with miniature two-ply Japanese flags.