Few men forget the first time they shaved – or rather clumsily scraped – the fuzz off their faces as they stepped into adulthood. The first shave usually gives youngsters a feeling similar to the thrill of riding a two-wheeler solo for the first time with the wind in their hair.
Wielding a razor is, of course, tricky for a novice. I remember the first shaving set my father presented me when I turned 17 – a plastic no-frills affair. One morning I resolutely set to work to rid my pimpled face of its patchy and unsightly fluff.
Forgetfully running the razor over a cluster of pimples hidden by lather, I drew blood soon enough. With a towel I repeatedly dabbed in vain at the running ‘rivulets’ and by the time I managed to shave the down off my face, it resembled a scarlet-smeared artist’s palette. Bloodied, I emerged sheepishly from the toilet.
We siblings then were incorrigibly mischievous. Once, a younger brother sneaked a blade out of Dad’s shaving-set to trim his fingernails and then mindlessly slipped it back. Sure enough, next day a fuming Dad appeared with a prominent gash on his cheek. The wrongdoer escaped a thrashing, however, thanks to our fraternal conspiracy of silence! Irked by our constant squabbling, dad once lost his cool and thundered, quite aptly though, “You fellows are like a razor – always either in hot water or a scrape!”
There’s, of course, many a slip ‘twixt the razor and the lip. On my maiden shave I badly mangled my stringy moustache, reducing it to a mere shadow. Like most youngsters, I too craved a moustache of which I could be proud but, despite diligent nurturing, I could only grow a miserable apology for one. Nothing, of course, is more frustrating to a youngster than a moustache that stubbornly refuses to grow beyond wispiness!
Nevertheless, spurred by youthful vanity, I persevered. I shaved the unflattering fringe on my upper lip regularly, hoping it would encourage vigorous hair growth. One of my father's colleagues once caught me stealing a glance at my mug in the car’s rear-view mirror. “Admiring the poonai mudi (Tamil for cat’s fur) that passes for your moustache?” he joked unfeelingly. That jibe cut deep.
Eventually, I learnt the hard way that a smooth, nick-free shave comes with experience, practice and familiarity with the contours of one’s dial. Thus began a life-long habit that’s, frankly, hardly a pleasure for most men except perhaps the appearance-conscious. For many, it’s often a tedious task undertaken perfunctorily. For the teenager, however, it conspicuously, and sometimes dramatically, signals his transition to adulthood.