Brushing up

I really prefer to shave with a sharp razor and a faceful of lather worked up by a real shaving brush. And now that I have arrived at an age where I don't care what anyone thinks about my stubblebeard, I get around to shaving every three-four days, tops. And anyone who has compared the shave one gets from a razor, as opposed to an electric shaver, will tell you there is no comparison at all, to be honest about it. That electric face smoother just can't get in there and slice the whiskers off at the root, no matter what the commercials say. Here's the test: when you want to get the shave of your life, you go to a nice barbershop and have Floyd swaddle your mug in moist warm terrycloth, followed by a layer of foam he just whipped up in a mug. And then comes the blade, recently honed on a leather strop to shiny perfection. In a trice, your face is free of even a hint of whisker. A splash of Bay Rum and you're on your way to that job interview or wedding, the equal of any man anywhere. Or, use the electric one, which has a lot in common with that industrial floor buffer the building maintenance guy pushes around the office late at night. It's your choice. By the way, my prized shave brush is a sweet tuft of badger fur, donated by a badger whose natural life had come to a glorious end. He had spent the morning badgering a weasel, and then the weasel chased him away. He made good his escape, but realized it was a really close shave.