Thoughts on Shaving
"After all, most writing is done away from the typewriter, away from the desk. I'd say it occurs in the quiet, silent moments, while you're walking or shaving or playing a game, or whatever, or even talking to someone you're not vitally interested in.”
- Henry Miller
While on a recent road trip, I forgot my shaving cream. Shaving dry is the equivalent of chewing rocks: if you have to due to circumstances outside of your control, then you do it. There was a drug store around the corner so I went looking for substitute shaving cream. As I am walking down the toiletries aisle, a miniature can of Barbasol shaving cream--the can with the red and white strips--catches my eye. It's ninety-nine cents. Done.
Back in high school, Fr.Kevin Dillworth told the whole class that you'll get a much closer, painless shave if you let your face "warm up" in the morning. It's the grooming equivalent of putting a lawn mower in the sun for a few minutes before you pull the chord. I go get a workout in, my face warms up, getting semi-oily from a deep sweat, and I shave before I shower. I put in a fresh razor blade, turn on the water, release a good sized portion of Barbasol shaving cream on my hands, and take an extra deep breath.
I remember seeing the red and white can in my grandpa's medicine cabinet, remembering how shaving cream was almost a toy when I was five. Sometimes I would climb on to the bathroom counter, put it on my hands and clap them together--white foam going to the floor rug, and on to the counter.
I remember looking for shaving cream in my grandpa's medicine cabinet--a different house, and a different grandpa. I don't remember finding any shaving cream, but I remember finding a straight edge razor. His razor had a pear handle, resembling more a weapon than a razor. The razors that I was familiar with were blue plastic with two shiny blades. I wondered how a person could use such a thing without cutting themself every time they shaved.
It was a clipped version of Remembrance of Things Past. Smell is intimately intertwined with memory. The budget shaving cream in the red and white can brought back a wave of memories.
The other thing I think about when I randomly think about shaving is the movie I'll Sleep When I'm Dead. In the movie Clive Owen plays a London mob boss--the Saville Row version of Michael Corleone--who is so overcome with guilt and remorse that he abandons his life and becomes a lumberjack. A few years of doing this, and he finds out that his brother has died, and he returns home to sort things out. He spends most of the movie channelling Steve McQueen: he says little, broods much, and stomps around London in a pair of nasty jeans and abused flannel shirts. I'd submit that some of the early 1900s sharecroppers dressed better than he does.
Most of the movie is set-up for the last fifteen minutes. Clive Owen's character gets to the bottom of things, and goes to collect his major remaining possessions--a vintage Jaguar, a bespoke suit, a suitcase full of money, and a gun--which are locked up under a semi abandoned night club he owns. He washes the car, goes to a hotel, showers, has the suit cleaned and steamed, and his barber shows up to take care of the grooming. I'm not sure what the technical word for this shot is, but in one instant we see the gross beard and tangled hair, and in a blink we see a fully barbered man--his face clean shaven, and the trimmed dark hair with a wet sheen.
The scene is haunting. I've spent a good chunk of time thinking about this scene. Although I disagree with it philosophically, the scene is pointing out that people don't change. Under the gross hair, stubble, and ragged clothes their lies the brutal mob boss. He may have gone dormant for a period of time, but he's still there.
Namaste
- Henry Miller
While on a recent road trip, I forgot my shaving cream. Shaving dry is the equivalent of chewing rocks: if you have to due to circumstances outside of your control, then you do it. There was a drug store around the corner so I went looking for substitute shaving cream. As I am walking down the toiletries aisle, a miniature can of Barbasol shaving cream--the can with the red and white strips--catches my eye. It's ninety-nine cents. Done.
Back in high school, Fr.Kevin Dillworth told the whole class that you'll get a much closer, painless shave if you let your face "warm up" in the morning. It's the grooming equivalent of putting a lawn mower in the sun for a few minutes before you pull the chord. I go get a workout in, my face warms up, getting semi-oily from a deep sweat, and I shave before I shower. I put in a fresh razor blade, turn on the water, release a good sized portion of Barbasol shaving cream on my hands, and take an extra deep breath.
I remember seeing the red and white can in my grandpa's medicine cabinet, remembering how shaving cream was almost a toy when I was five. Sometimes I would climb on to the bathroom counter, put it on my hands and clap them together--white foam going to the floor rug, and on to the counter.
I remember looking for shaving cream in my grandpa's medicine cabinet--a different house, and a different grandpa. I don't remember finding any shaving cream, but I remember finding a straight edge razor. His razor had a pear handle, resembling more a weapon than a razor. The razors that I was familiar with were blue plastic with two shiny blades. I wondered how a person could use such a thing without cutting themself every time they shaved.
It was a clipped version of Remembrance of Things Past. Smell is intimately intertwined with memory. The budget shaving cream in the red and white can brought back a wave of memories.
The other thing I think about when I randomly think about shaving is the movie I'll Sleep When I'm Dead. In the movie Clive Owen plays a London mob boss--the Saville Row version of Michael Corleone--who is so overcome with guilt and remorse that he abandons his life and becomes a lumberjack. A few years of doing this, and he finds out that his brother has died, and he returns home to sort things out. He spends most of the movie channelling Steve McQueen: he says little, broods much, and stomps around London in a pair of nasty jeans and abused flannel shirts. I'd submit that some of the early 1900s sharecroppers dressed better than he does.
Most of the movie is set-up for the last fifteen minutes. Clive Owen's character gets to the bottom of things, and goes to collect his major remaining possessions--a vintage Jaguar, a bespoke suit, a suitcase full of money, and a gun--which are locked up under a semi abandoned night club he owns. He washes the car, goes to a hotel, showers, has the suit cleaned and steamed, and his barber shows up to take care of the grooming. I'm not sure what the technical word for this shot is, but in one instant we see the gross beard and tangled hair, and in a blink we see a fully barbered man--his face clean shaven, and the trimmed dark hair with a wet sheen.
The scene is haunting. I've spent a good chunk of time thinking about this scene. Although I disagree with it philosophically, the scene is pointing out that people don't change. Under the gross hair, stubble, and ragged clothes their lies the brutal mob boss. He may have gone dormant for a period of time, but he's still there.
Namaste
posted by Zen_Accountant at 10:42 AM
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