So there I was this past Sunday morning, having just poured myself a cup of coffee, anchored my SRD 3" Latigo strop to the cabinet wall, pulled the stool over (I prefer to sit while I strop--it's too low otherwise) and opened up my 3-week-old 5/8 Dovo Special to strop up before a shave that I was looking forward to, it being a beautiful Sunday morning and all, and me being up early enough that I wasn't going to have to rush anything and would still make it to church in plenty of time. I took up the slack on the web strop and did 50 laps at a comfortable but I think good speed for a noob, no problems, grooving on the zipping sound of the spine on the webbing as the blade travelled back and forth. Then I switched over to the leather strop, took up the tension, and started up again, patting myself on the back that I was only about a month into this and had really picked it up quickly, and had not nicked myself badly nor the strop at all. And there I was, stropping away, enjoying my little smug-fest for one, without a care in the world.
Note to self: Pride goeth before a fall (you could look it up).
As I came to the end of the backstroke, just about to flip the blade back over its spine and send it out away from me again, anticipating the hiss and the draw, I did 2 things that were a deviation from the established discipline of the strop: I let a little slack into the strop, and I moved my right hand back up the strop--before I had flipped the blade. And there it was: a neat little triangular flap of strop with the edge of my razor tucked underneath. I don't know how I managed to stop my hand as quickly as I did. Fortunately, it was a small and very shallow flap, so I figured I'd be able to glue it back in place with rubber cement as I'd read about. So after a few minutes of regaining my composure, I checked the blade to make sure I hadn't created a burr (I hadn't) and finished my stropping routine--at a much slower pace, you may be sure, and completely focused on the task at hand, having left the smug-fest at about the same time the edge of my razor decided to see what the strop looked like underneath the finish. Fortunately, I was able to recover my equilibrium (bacon, eggs and coffee work wonders) and I had that enjoyable shave to which I had looked forward with such eager anticipation. I got the strop repaired that night, and though I could see where the nick had been, I couldn't feel it.
The next day--yesterday--I set up my strop, took up the razor--and felt pretty jumpy. Stropping on the webbing--no problem. But switching to the leather--ah, now, that's different. I felt like I was stropping for the first time, and not a comfortable first time, either. My hand shook, I hesitated on more than one stroke, I stopped altogether three times and put the razor down before finishing my routine. I managed not to give Nick a brother, but that's about all I can say. I went upstairs, thinking that a good shave would put me right and settle me down a bit.
So there I was, shaving along, enjoying the smooth feel of the blade as the edge travelled down my upper lip, then around the side of my mouth, relishing the ease with which the blade was cutting my whiskers below my lower lip, getting ready to shave across cleft point of my chin, smugly congratulating myself that I had only been at this about a month and hadn't nicked myself badly, taking up traction to the left of my chin and bringing the razor up for the first pass across, without a care in the world.
Note to self: Remember previous note to self.
And there it was: a lovely crimson line, perfectly vertical, on the left side of the cleft, with my razor sticking out of it, and bleeding like it was trying to outdo the Deepwater Horizon. About 10 minutes later, having used quite a lot of green liquid steptic to finally stop the bleeding, I regained my composure and finished my shave. Rinsing my blade at the conclusion, I noticed a greenish patina on the back of my shiny new Dovo that wasn't coming off. It's amazing to me that an instrument of steel with an edge sharp and fine enough to cut me deep without any pain will take a stain so easily. I'm assuming it's a stain, and that I can polish it out with some Maas or maybe silver polish, but I don't know--maybe it's oxidation. Maybe one of you more experienced gentlemen can enlighten me there?
So, a rough couple of days and a couple of valuable lessons learned, not without some cost but nothing I can't live with. When my wife saw my chin and asked what had happened, I replied that it had been a case of swords for two and coffee for one at dawn, and that the coffee had been delicious.
And if you, my newbie brethren, find yourselves having your own little smug-fests in the midst of stropping, honing, or shaving, let me advise you to leave that party quick before you do yourselves or your gear a mischief.
"He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn;
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn."
--Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
