Shave Den Musings: The Innocent Strop

[Obie]

Ladies and gentlemen:

For some men, the mere mention of the word “strop” draws an acerbic chuckle along with the signature rub on their rump. Oh, yes, they remember the “strap,” the same “strop,” that canvas and leather wonder revered by straight razor shavers.

I have come across scores of men who draw vivid images of their father or grandfather wielding the strop for a whacking on the tokhus, while others paint little smiles filled with sweet nuggets of nostalgia. The conclusion leads me to believe the strop conjures up two distinct sets of memories: one of sunlight and other of shadow.

One camp bears fond recollections of grandpa hailing his morning shave by standing at the sink and swiping his straight razor across the beat-up leather “strop.” The other camp draws visions of a 10-foot leather “strap” painting stinging red streaks across their behinds like skid marks.

I do not expect peace anytime soon in this conflict, if ever.

What started this musing from my shave den on the strop’s mixed reputation was my discussion yesterday at the local hardware store. I was shopping for a hook to anchor my strop lower than where it now is. Currently I use a hook that is part of the anchor holding a shelf in my shave den. The position of the hook is too high for my height. It comes up way above my navel. When I strop, I always get this image of a portly gentlemen with his trousers pulled up to his chin.

The hardware store was a museum of hooks. Little hooks, big hooks, giant hooks, all of which had multiple uses: for hanging clothes, dish rags, fishing gear.


“That’s really helpful,” I said to the first clerk, listening to his explanation. “Thank you. But the hook I need is to hold my strop as I sharpen my straight razor for shaving.”

He gave me a sheepish look as he tried to understand what I needed the hook for.

“As you can see,” I said, “I’m an old gentlemen and I use the old style straight razors that need to be swiped across the strop.” I hesitated to let it sink in. Nothing. “That leather thing,” I added.

He nodded with the same sheepish look.

“Perhaps another gentleman can help me,” I offered.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and called out a name in his walkie-talkie.

When the second clerk arrived on the scene, he said to him, “Maybe you can help this guy.”

I delivered my lines again and, to my surprise, the second clerk nodded in confidence.

“You know what I’m talking about, right?” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “My grandfather was a barber.”

“A noble profession,” I declared.

“Did it all his life, and he used to use that leather thing — the strap — all the time to sharpen his blades.”

“The strop.” I corrected him.

“Yeah, the strap,” he said.

I gave up. “Of course, that leather thing,” I said.

“Yeah, the strap. I know all about it. My father laid it across my behind a few times.” He nodded again and rubbed his rump. “Boy that thing hurt.”

“You know the strop is a revered instrument by gentlemen who shave with straight razors,” I explained. “I mean we wouldn’t be caught dead without it.”

“Tell that to my behind,” he said, and gave his rump another rub.

I paid for my little hook and brought it home. This afternoon I have to screw it into the lower part of the cabinet and hope it can handle the pull from the strop. I mean that leather thing.

Regards,

Obie