Close encounters with shaving

The Princess has just returned from several days at the beach, where she had the arduous task of deciding which of the many ice cream establishments to patronize -- and in what order. She has survived the ordeal, however, and now returns to tales from her and the Hero's earlier trip to San Francisco.

As a child I only vaguely understood the purpose of a razor, and it did not occur to me to wonder why I never saw my mother or other individuals of a female persuasion shaving. One day I furtively took my father's straight razor and raked it across my face, as I had seen him do many times.

Somehow I had missed the part about using shaving cream first. This pretty much destroyed my razor curiosity.

Until recently.

In San Francisco, arriving a few days ahead of the Hero, I discovered an entire store for men that was devoted to shaving. The Hero did not believe this when I told him.

"They HAVE to sell something else," he said. "Probably cigars." 

So we visited the store when he came, not so much to shop as to see which of us was right. We learned that 1) the store is indeed dedicated solely to shaving, and 2) the staff of the store are fully convinced that shaving is an extremely high art form, and 3) the staff are whacko.

We waited until our fourth day in the city to go to the store, which in retrospect may not have been wise. The Hero does not, in general, believe in shaving while on vacation, and after a few days without a razor resembles a wooly mammoth from the neck up, only woolier.

This sight sent the salesperson into high gear. He whirled us from one display to another, describing his products with ever-increasing intensity and pitch, occasionally staring at the Hero's beard as if mesmerized by a charming but deadly snake, until we thought he was going to grab a $500 razor and attack the Hero's beard right then and there.

Thinking it would hasten our escape, the Hero finally admitted that he uses an electric razor. This only sent the salesperson into another frenzy of explaining the products suitable for such a lifestyle, however disdainful of it he might be personally. There MUST be a way to get at that beard!

Before he could fling himself at the Hero and beg for a chance to shave him, we made our escape. We thought for a moment he might try to follow us, and we fled for refuge into a nearby shoe store. HERE was something I could understand.

I felt some pity for the salesperson, and wish him solace among his beloved razors. And someday, better luck with another wooly mammoth.