Razors and Shaving and King C. Gillette

When I pulled into my mother's home in CA for a Spring Break visit I realized, upon rummaging through my toiletries, that I had forgotten my razor. No problem, of course. I would just ask her for one that I no doubt had left on a previous visit, and all would be well. I was wrong. I couldn't find any razors in "my" bathroom at her house. Even though her home is a 4-Star home, I realized it is not necessarily a 4-Star hotel which cheerfully supplies forgetful travelers with a variety of common amenities. I told her my problem and she, never reluctant to help her kids, decided to take things into her hands. After disappearing into her bedroom for a minute, she emerged with a razor and some blades. I never realized how touching a razor could evoke such strong memories--memories of my father, of adolescent attempts to learn how to shave, of cuts and scrapes of youth, of frozen times from the past and time rushing to meet me in 2005.

The Razor

She actually brought me two razors which my father had used. They must have been from the 1950s and early 1960s. Both of them used straight blades, which peeked out from either side of the head. One or the razors was a stubby-handled model with a base that you twisted to open the head of the mushroom-shaped top to replace the blade. The razor seemed surprisingly small to shavers from today; it must have been no longer than four inches. The other one, probably the "newer" one, was a sleeker model, about five inches long, with the "new and improved" feature of odd numbers circling the shaft--you were supposed to adjust it to "1" or "3" or "5" or "7" or "9" depending on how "close" a shave you wanted. Shaving technology had evolved, even if the razor still took flat blades.

Ah, the blades. In one of the razors was a dull "Wilkinson Sword" blade, which probably was the last blade my father used before his death late in 1981. But my mother gave me a box of blades which she thought I might use instead. She told me that dad got that box as a wedding present in 1948 (who knows the mystery of why mothers keep certain things?). I held the box in my hands and examined it closely. It was a red and black razor box, no larger than the ten blades it contained, made by the Gillette Company of Boston, MA. The box assured me that "Gillette Quality" was "The Same The World Over," and then it listed nine countries where Gillette products were sold. Stamped over the list of countries was the price of the blades: 35 cents. On the same side was a copyright notice and then the signature of King C. Gillette, not, apparently, an African monarch but the Founder of the Company.

Four individually-wrapped blades remained in the box. Actually, the blades were "double-wrapped," with the outer covering being a red and black paper, with the words "THIN GILLETTE BLADE" written in large letters on it. The inner covering was a waxy paper, which reminded me of the kind of envelopes we, a philatelly-inclined family, used to use to preserve Plate Blocks in the 1950s and 1960s. Inside the waxy paper was the blade. I gingerly took it out of the paper and examined it. The brownish blade, with the Gillette logo from that day (an arrow piercing the word "Gillette") had the words "Known the World Over" written on top and "THIN Gillette BLADE" on the bottom. The holes in the middle which enabled you to slip it onto the razor were weirdly-constructed holes, diagonal or oblong in shape, reminding me of a sort of Rorschach test design.

The Shave

So, I decided to use the blade. Ok. I prepared the hot water and lathered my face. I picked up the razor. It seemed almost childishly small in my hand, as if it was a memory from my childhood much like the 28'' Louisville Slugger that I used in Little League, far before I "graduated" to the 34'' model when I played Babe Ruth ball at age 13. It felt strange when I applied the blade to my face. I realized right away that this razor was no "swivel-head" razor. It didn't try at all to conform to the shape of my face, like the razors I have now taken for granted for decades. Then, it dawned on me. Of course it didn't conform to my face. The 1950s and 1960s were decades where there was no consumer movement, where you were supposed to conform to the "requirements" or strictures of the world as it was presented to you. The "Organization Man" emerged in this period. It was "Protestant, Catholic, Jew." Pick your organization. Pick your religion. But there were only very few varieties. You fit into the world as it was presented to you. Thus, comfort and convenience in shaving were concepts that had not yet emerged. Your face "fit" the blade. The blade didn't give. Your face did.

All of these thoughts rushed over me as I put the blade against my left temple and began to shave. The "Thin Gillette Blade," surprisingly, seemed to be doing its job. 57 years of being wrapped in wax paper and stored in medicine chests didn't appear to diminish its sharpness. But then things started to go wrong. It is relatively easy to shave your cheeks, but when I had to negotiate around my small dimple, my rather large jaw, the furrows under my nose (which, I have learned, is technically called the 'philtrum') or the unpredictable contours of my chin, I was not as skillful. The first cut came, actually, on my neck. I think I tried to rip the razor too quickly over my neck, and a little blood spurted out. Not to worry. I was almost done, I thought. But then, a little nick on the chin, and then, in trying to get all the hairs that grew under the nose, I got too close to the base of the nose, and I nicked my nose pretty convincingly. I looked at my face, and though I could still recognize myself, I was afraid that it looked as if I was following directions on how to prepare sacrifices from the Book of Leviticus rather than shaving in 2005.

Though I finished shaving, I hadn't yet finished thinking about shaving. The next essay shares some of those further thoughts.