A Man's morning shave ritual. It's something that's been done for centuries, even in the days of rampant beards, a number of men preferring to remain clean-shaven. My brother always had a beard. With his red hair, build, and height, he very much resembled a Viking until cancer took 120 pounds off his frame, tempering his blade and honing his spirit.
Dad tried to grow a mustache once. It was in the early 70's, and was less than successful. Dad had fine, dark red hair that gave rise to a mustache that was thin and sparse. I remember my Mom looking at the final outcome and trying her darnedest not to giggle and failing. Dad looked at it with a wry smile, shrugged, and went back to the bathroom and shaved it off. Mom wasn't trying to belittle his efforts; her love fluttered over all of us like small wings, whisking away tears and brushing aside fears. She treated Dad the same way, but oh dear Lord, was that a sorry-looking mustache, and even Dad realized it.
So from that day forward, each and every morning, Dad was in the bathroom shaving. For most men, the morning shave is something they must do each and every day. It's done whether there is a houseful of kids bustling around, or they are on their own.
I remember my Dad's ritual, which remained as long as he lived. After he did his morning workout (which he did six days a week for 80 years), he'd go shave. He would never use an electric razor or any shave cream in a can. No, Dad always had a mug of fine soap, a high-quality brush,, and a regular razor, with a straight razor when he wanted an extra-close shave for a special occasion.
I remember vividly those winter mornings of childhood, all of us dressing quickly, not so much that the house was cold, but hearts and blood and minds weren't quite awake yet, and movement was with willful purpose until such time as the chocolate milk or the caffeine kicked in. Dad would come through the kitchen from where he worked out, giving my Mom a kiss, the morning sun highlighting the freckles on her face, then a kiss for each of us, still in our pajamas, our faces innocent of either guile or water.
While my brother and I tried to stay out of his way, he'd shave, the tiny half bath, which was his bathroom, filling with steam. He was careful with the straight razor, pulling it over his features as carefully as if they were oiled glass, rinsing it in hot water, as the dark stubble on his face brushed away like filings from a new gun barrel. I simply watched from the kitchen table, carefully and quietly. Dad was so intent on his task that, before he even drew down that fine blade for its first stroke, his attention was almost perceptible in the air, surrounding him as fragrance does, leaving a subtle impression of his intent long before the act was complete.
When he was done, he'd finish as he started, with a clean washcloth doused in extra hot water, laid on his face to steam it. Then he'd finish with a splash of aftershave. There were only a few that he would wear.
Brut was beyond popular when I was growing up, one of the first to use a celebrity endorsement to persuade men that grooming wasn't for wimps. Famed heavyweight boxer Henry Cooper was the original "face" of Brut, urging men to "splash it all over"long before David Beckham had his first shave.
Then there was the Hai Karate. My Dad had some of that and was supremely disappointed, and he used to tease my Mom that his bottle must have been a dud, since he didn't have to fend off any supermodels with karate chops like in the commercials. I don't remember what it smelled like, but I don't think he ever had to fend off Mom wearing it, though, come to think of it, once, when he put on too much, she drove a golf ball from the back yard through the back kitchen window with a Five Iron.
Dad gave that up for Old Spice, which he wore from then on, though once in a while he'd put on "Stetson" cologne and give Mom this look, and she'd giggle, and we'd go have a sleepover with our beloved Aunt and Uncle.
The last time I went home before the house was sold, Mom's giggling laughter but an echo in the walls, Dad gave me a big hug and I could still smell the Old Spice on his shirt, that "Dad" smell that's both reassurance and comfort.
Now, there's not just aftershave; there is cologne, shampoo, body washes, and shampoo/body washes (and what's the difference?).
Most advertise themselves as smelling like "fresh glacier extinguishing a giant forest fire full of deer in heat" or something like that. I think the perfect man's natural scent would be a mysterious combination of gun cleaning fluid, coffee, bacon, and woodsmoke, but I loved Dad's Old Spice and the sandalwood scent my husband wears.
I'm happy my husband has much of the same ritual as my Dad, with the soap in a mug and the high-quality brush.
He shaves at night after I've had my bubble bath, and as I curl up on the sofa with a s mug of herb tea. he'll begin that ritual. He's shaved in hundreds of hotels, in countries all over the world, the ritual much the same, yet there's something almost peaceful about the act performed in one's own bathroom, in one's own home, small rituals of sameness.
Many of us wander all over the world, the esteemed and the obscure, the bold and the invisible, earning beyond the oceans our riches, our scars, and our destiny. But when we go home, we render an account; we sweep away the things we picked up that pull us down as we surround ourselves with the familiar, with that which is cherished.
When he is done, he'll join me on the couch in his bathrobe, the house quiet but for hundred-year-old sconces on the walls that lend the room an aura of timelessness. We won't talk much but of books we are reading, of things in our home that need repair, or simply our day as we sit and stroke the flanks of a rescue dog that lies beside us. Such rituals are as fine as a blade, as comforting as stone. Shared, they are as bright and uplifting as the flash of sparks as dulled blade and stone meet.
There won't be any trips back "home", Dad gone 5 years now, but I remember the last ones vividly. I dreaded the changes I would see in his physicality and changes in his world. But when I went home, and my frail Dad gave me an affectionate bear hug of welcome, he still smelled like Old Spice, and I was six years old again.
So much has changed, I remembered as I took one last look at my childhood home before the keys were passed to another family. It was a house that saw both the lives and the deaths of my two moms, of my brother's presence that still thundered through the rooms, the walls now missing the medallions of his courage. So much gone, swirled down the drain with past and present tears. But still, I look at the world as I did those long ago mornings, carefully and quietly. And when my husband gives me a hug, and I breathe the familiar scent of shaving soap, it is the same feeling I had in my family home so many years ago. In that moment of ritual, I'm at peace, safe, and loved, with a future that is too far away to fear.
-Brigid
click on this picture to enlarge, Sunny D. double dog dares you
