The Quest for the Perfect Shave
I am sure some you older heads have seen this. I had not and thought it was funny. A fellow member passed it on to me.
The Secret to the Perfect Shave
Posted by ina lather
I’ve been shaving for a long time now.
Like everyone else, I started in my late teens (possibly a little later than most). Initially, my skill
level, and the quality of the resulting shave, increased dramatically with each effort. After about a
year, I reached a plateau, a quality of shave that I was satisfied with, (and which, I might add, no
longer elicited disparaging remarks from the fairer sex) – and maintained at this level for… oh, I
don’t know, about thirty years.
About five, maybe six years ago, whilst traveling in Southeast Asia, I had gone into a barber shop
in a beachfront village in southern Thailand, and while I was getting my locks shorn, I decided,
“Why not – let’s go for a shave, too.” That was my first experience with the blade…and I was
amazed. For the next two days, I found myself unconsciously reaching up and gently caressing
my cheek and chin – marveling at the heretofore unimaginable satiny-smoothness of my own
flesh – reveling in the faint fragrance of just the right combination of cheap aftershave and
barber’s talc.
And so began my search – no, my quest for the Holy Grail – the Perfect Shave. I started on my
own, with no guidance but what I was provided with by Hollywood on the silver screen. I had a
brief flirtation with an inherited straight razor, in what can only be described as a blood-rite (oh,
THAT’S why they call them cut-throats!). I purchased a red and white plastic brush, topped with
(what now feels like) straw broom bristles - I invested in a round cake of Williams Shaving Soap
($0.99), and sunk my life savings in the best and latest that American Big-Business (oh, those
black-hearted pirates!) could provide. And I was rewarded with a marginally better shave. I was
quite proud of myself, and, in my ignorance, thought I was doing quite well.
After thinking about it for some time, I decided that my quest should actually be on two fronts –
first, improve my personal skills, knowledge and equipment, and secondly, to do the necessary
field research in order to have a benchmark, so to speak, with which to judge my own progress.
As a part of the second front of my quest, every time I traveled, I made it a point to search out the
best possible shave wherever I was. As a result, I have been shaved in the best British tradition,
in parlors with Rosewood paneling, seated in chairs of finest Corinthian leather and attended to
by gentlemen of lineage and breeding far exceeding my own. I have been treated to the secrets
of the Orient, receiving manicures and pedicures while simultaneously being serviced by what
can only be described as a Ginsu Blademaster, all the while surrounded with the exotic sounds
and smells of the East. I find it impossible to pass a 5-star hotel, knowing that there is likely a
small shop off the Reception, with a master barber who might, after all my searching, be able to
deliver the key to the Holy Grail.
So, you can imagine my mental state when, on a business trip to a city that shall remain
unnamed, I happened to speak to a local business associate, and the subject of my quest came
up. He mentioned in passing, that he had received an exceptional shave from a gentleman in a
small shop, and (this is what really piqued my interest) that I should ask not for a shave, but for a
‘really close shave’ – the latter being some form of code, because the barber did not give just
anybody a ‘really close shave’. He provided me with some general directions on how to find the
shop, and the conversation moved on.
That evening, I drove my rented car down as close as the directions could get me, and found
myself in what can only be described as the ‘seedy’ part of town. I soon spotted a grimy, broken
down red, white and blue barber pole (does anybody realize that the original red and white barber
pole stems from the fact that barbers used to also be surgeons, and one of their most common
procedures back in those times was the letting of blood, and every barber had a pole in front of
his shop on which he would dry both his clean and his blood soaked bandages, and when the
wind blew, the bandages would wrap around the poles in a spiral pattern, and you could always
find the barber because of his pole with the bandages? – but I digress).
I retreated in shock, sure that this could not possibly be the abode of the Keeper of the Grail Key.
But, over the next couple of days, I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind, and, sure enough, the
day before I had to leave, I found myself inexorably drawn to the dirty little shop in the seedy part
of town.
I parked my rented car behind a ’63 Plymouth with one wheel missing, stepped over a drunken
wretch lying on the sidewalk, and proceeded inside. The dimly lit shop consisted of a small space
with two barber chairs (one obviously broken, judging by the awkward angle of the footrest), the
requisite implement-covered backbar and mirror, and, along the opposite wall, a row of 4 red and
green vinyl covered chrome chairs for waiting customers, all empty.
There was a customer in the one good barber chair, being attended to by what can only be
described as this little hobbit of a man, with big ears and an atrocious comb-over. I hesitantly took
a seat, and immediately felt uncomfortable in these less-than-sartorial surroundings. After a
minute or two, just as I had decided to get up and take my leave, the little hobbit-man suddenly
removed the sheet from his customer, gave it a well-practiced snap and turned to me and said
‘Next’.
I was trapped. I had to go through with it. As I slowly settled myself into the still warm seat, the
previous customer paid his bill, opened the door with a jingle, and left.
We were alone, now, and the barber-hobbit turned to me and said “What’ll it be?”
I froze. I tried to talk, but nothing would come out. My hands clenched the duct-tape covered
armrests. This little creature just stood there, staring at me with his little hobbit-eyes, and finally
said “You want a haircut, or what?”
“N-n-no,”, I stammered, “I’d like a shave.”
“OK, a shave it is, then” he replied, and turned to the back bar to get his razor and brush.
“I’d like a shave”, I repeated to his back “ …a really close shave”.
He stopped.
He stood there motionless for a minute. I sat there, staring at his back, when slowly, he turned his
head and looked at me. One eyebrow (the right one) slowly raised up to where his hairline used
to be, and he said “You want a really close shave?”
“Y-y-y-es” , I replied, “ …a really close shave.”
He nodded, and walked to the front door, and with his right hand, reached up and gave the lock a
twist. He snapped closed the blinds on the door, and repeated the process to the blinds on the
front window. In the now darkened shop, illuminated only by the pattern on the floor of the setting
sun through closed louvers, he began.
The sound of the ceiling fan created a gentle thrum-thrum as he reached up and lightly ran his
fingers along my cheek. The electricity of the moment was palpable. In that one, brief touch, I
knew I was in the hands of a master. I suddenly was certain, I had found him – my guide to the
Grail - the Yoda of all Master Barbers. He steamed a towel, reclined the chair, and wrapped my
face. After a few minutes, he removed the towel and proceeded to lather my face. Every
movement, was practiced, fluid, with no wasted motion. The warm lather relaxed me into a semistupor.
And then he turned to the back bar, and I knew that this was it – this was my moment of
enlightenment – my Grail Key. He slid open a drawer, and removed something, and gently closed
the drawer. He slowly turned, extended his arm, and opened his fist…..and as soon as I saw it, I
knew – I suddenly knew the secret to the perfect shave – the Holy Grail – my years of searching
were not in vain, for here, in the pudgy hand of a misshapen creature in the grimy backwater of
this metropolitan city, Yoda had revealed the secret – for in his hand, extended to me, was a
small, faded-red, foam-rubber ball.
“Put this in your mouth” the Master said, as if I needed any instruction as to its’ purpose! I eagerly
picked up the rubber ball and put it in my mouth, and without being instructed, pushed it over to
the left side between my cheek and teeth, thereby stretching and maintaining the cheek skin to
the perfect tension, and Yoda grunted and went to work. Each whisker fairly exploded off my
face, and under his masterful ministrations, it was but seconds before he said “Okay, now move it
over to the other side.”, and I received the same treatment over there. The rest of the procedure
was a blur as I contemplated and processed the new information that I had just received, and I
was taken a little by surprise when the BladeMaster stepped back and said “Well, whattaya
think?”
I reached up with my hand, and felt what can only be described as epidermal nirvana - my
trembling fingers gently caressed a cheek so smooth as to make the proverbial baby's bottom
feel like a field of weeds - my fingers danced across a chin as smooth as a cue ball - and the
other two chins were even better. Even the eternal bramble patch under each jowl had been
dispatched and replaced with satin.
I complimented him on his performance, and, as he was quietly returning his implements to their
drawers, I had to add "You know, the whole time you were shaving me, I couldn't help but wonder
what would have happened had I accidentally swallowed that rubber ball"
'No problem", replied Yoda, without even turning around, "just bring it back tomorrow....that's
what everyone else does."
