Sometimes the razor bites you, sometimes you bite the razor.
Yah, sort of sets your teeth on edge, don't it. *G*
I've been meaning to blog about my own unique form of recycling. It's not so much recycling in the sense of 'using something and sending it back to be reused' as...stepping back a few decades to when things weren't disposable. Like razors.
Or in my case, shaving cream. I know, I'm already way off the cut, but hang in there, it's a shaving post. See, shaving cream comes in a pressurized can, most times. The can is empty, you throw it away or you recycle it, either way there's a disposable element. Me, I've changed that. I use a shaving brush, a mug and a cake of soap.
Not just any soap, mind you, but shaving soap. Made locally by a craftswoman out of goat's milk from her animals. She probably added in three or four drops of bay rum scented oil that she had to buy from heaven knows where, but it's all organic, local and best of all, none of it gets thrown away. Yes I still cut myself, but at least now it's in a good cause.
It was bought for me on a whim at a local Arts N Crafts festival two months ago, but you know, adding that little off-white mug with it's four dark blue stripes and the badger hair brush to my morning ritual makes me enjoy the whole process more. No more do I grab the can, squirt a dollop of eerie translucent green stuff into my fingers and gel it all over so it can froth up thirty times it's original size. No more do I empty an (expensive) can of it once a month and toss it in the trash, only to buy another (no recycling service around here.)
Now in the mornings I slow down a little. I step out of the shower and dry off, reach over to the shelf and take down my heavy ceramic mug and the brush with it's pale wooden handle. I lay the razor down on the counter, run the brush's bristles under very hot water and swirl it around and around the pad of pale yellow soap there in the mug. It took me a few weeks to figure out how best to produce the lather, how to hold the brush just so, how to let the leftover foam stay in the mug to help cement the cake in place, but now I'm comfortable with it. Up comes a fine white foam that fills half the mug, and this I swirl onto my waiting and stubbly cheeks, warm and smelling of some forgotten age.
Yes, before you say it, there is a sort of nostalgia present. I never saw either of my grandfather's shaving mugs and brushes, but I know they each had one. I don't feel like I'm communing with their long-departed ghosts when I shave, and I know that just because it's old fashioned it's not necessarily better. I just believe that all progress is not necessarily good, and it helps my battered soul smile a little to use a fountain pen when I write, to wear a fedora when I dress up nice, and to use a shaving mug when I have to scrape my cheeks. Why not enjoy a daily chore?
Don't get me wrong, I still use a razor with disposable blades. You won't find me trying to assemble one of those steel contraptions with the lethal 'safety' blades, nor will you probably ever read about me stropping six inches of straight razor on a leather belt before applying it to my delicate cheeks. No, I like my face right where it is, with as few self-inflicted cuts as possible. Mach 3 is plenty close for me, and as long as I have my cup and my brush I'm happy as a fellow with a new zoot suit.