Gentlemen,

Yesterday I forced the straight razor on my Hollywood face and the blade flashed its fangs at me.

Forcing the blade is a lot like forcing a sentence, a joke or a tired idea: it does not work.

I was heading north with my shave and somewhere in the upper lip neighborhood I felt a tug on the razor. Ordinarily I would lower the razor spine or change direction slightly to overcome the tug. This time, for some odd reason, I thought I could get away with forcing the blade and ended up paying the price with a small nick.

Since I rarely nick myself — not because I am a master of the straight razor, but, rather, because I am a pilgrim who uses extreme care and thought when shaving — I hurt my pride and had to reach for the styptic pencil.

Shaving with a straight razor is about nuance. Sometimes it takes a tiny shift in angle or a slight variation in direction to cut the rebellious stubble.

That and the patience of a saint help make for a good shave. Maybe the saint part is going a bit too far. Patience, then, in its clearest definition.

Forcing the straight razor goes counter to nuance and patience — and you cannot fool the blade.

Regards,

Obie