Gentlemen,

Life is a series of trade offs.

A while back I injured my left hand and was forced to stop shaving with my straight razors except for one pass on the on the weekends. Since I had always used both hands to shave with a straight razor, trying to adjust to using the right hand proved futile.

Finally I decided to sell my razors so that, at least, others could enjoy something I no longer was able to do so. I kept my Feather Artist Club razor, however, since it required no stropping, and used it for that single pass on the weekends. I even sold my strop.

The gentlemen who bought my razors and strop were good people, and I was glad to contribute to their quality of life with some fine razors

I was hear broken for the loss of my straight razors, of course. My reaction to that loss even surprised me. What devastated me most, though, was to walk into my bath room the morning after I had shipped out the final razor and my strop and not see my strop hanging from the hook. A feeling of emptiness exploded in me like powerful bomb.

A non-straight razor shaver might find my reaction overly sentimental. "What nonsense !" — I could hear it. You gentlemen, however, understand my what I mean by the loss.

For some passions eventually become obsessions. I am passionate for my straight razors. Obsessed with using them. It's a good obsession. A worthy obsession.

But my razors were gone. So was my strop. It was an inexpensive strop, I admit, but it was still my beloved strop. They were a part of me, part of my morning ritual, and a tranquil little patch in my busy, though highly creative life.

In the meantime I continued to use my double edge razors, and beautiful razors, at that, two Edwin Jagger "Chatsworth" razors and a Cyril Salter. I had sold most of the others and kept my favorites. And on the weekends I kept on with my single pass shave.

The good news is that now, weeks later, my left hand has improved considerably, to my surprise, so much so that now I can go with three passes per shave and several days a week. I still have to be careful with my left hand.

In the past few weeks I have bought four gorgeous straight razors, two Thiers-Issards and two Dovos. And I have a beautiful new strop. For now I have made a trade off by using my double edge razors three days a week and the straights four. That makes seven days.

Who knows what lies ahead with my hand? Whatever, I shall never sell my straight razors again. I might even buy another pair, if a few extra shekels head my way.

Should my left hand give out again, I'll try harder this time to learn to shave with only my right hand. If by some bad luck my right hand gives out, too, then I'll turn into another Lord Peter Wimsey, the socialite sleuth in the Dorothy Sayers novels, and engage myself a manservant named Bunter — and have him shave me daily with my straights razors and then lay out my clothes.

Regards,

Obie
obieyadgar.com