I was commissioned to write a piece on shaving for a grooming brand last month. Unfortunately it didn’t quite fit the bill, so have subtracted the mention of the brand, and am just sharing a shaving related anecdote. The razor pictured is from Harry’s and was gifted. Harry’s did not pay or commission this article.
A quick history on how I got into shaving..
Zanzibar Club on Seel Street, Liverpool in the late 90’s was the dwellings for sullen hip students armed with Daddy’s money and a fervour for cheap indiscernible cocktails. You could barely hear over the live band, that sounded great by the way, all the time. I remember Penny, she was long faced, matriarchal and cut a melancholic shape, apparently she carried a secret that gave that justified that shape and then some. Nonetheless she was the apple of my eye, a girl I could fix, we could be interminably miserable together for the rest our lives and spawn miserable wretched children.
That particular night she had subjugated myself and another student, whose name I forget, but shall call Charles. Charles was also bidding for her affection and between us, we had Penny cornered. Nothing was said however, but I recall Penny groping the bottom of my chin, investigating the closeness of the shave. She then did the same to Charles with equal insouciance, and like some cruel cupid court jester, declared Charles the winner. Charles had won, and in my vitriolic despair I left Zanzibar and chuntered my way back to my lowly boxroom bedsit down Smithdown Road, carnally imagining Charles claiming Penny like some rampant testosterone-fuelled elephant seal. The next day, safe to say, I got into shaving.