Straight Edge Bourbon

     It was Christmas of 2003. I was twenty five. That year I had received an old fashioned straight edge razor for a gift. It came as a set including a mug, soap bar and lathering brush. I was eager to try it out. The blade had been sold through an estate sale and was truly vintage. This was no problem in terms of sanitation, as I was working in a sterilization department at the time. So, I had it sterilized prior to use.  The blade, however, was dull. My grandfather Denver Campbell had worked his entire life as a butcher and was an expert at sharpening blades. He still kept his sharpening stones under his old meat block in his kitchen.

     The Campbell house at any holiday was a festive environment. Christmas was no exception. Denver was not only a good butcher but a wonderful cook. The family had dubbed his kitchen "Denver's Diner". It was his domain. He took great delight in preparing a holiday goose or duck. The table was filled with all the typical American dishes but also included some Southern Appalachian specialties as well. These typically included shucky beans, cushaw pie and corn bread.

     After the meal, my family would gather in the living room and lay around for hours. My father and uncles could be found strewn out on random couches and lounge-chairs taking naps. My grandmother, mother and aunts scurried about the kitchen scrubbing dishes and packing up the leftovers. Grandada was off to the side sizing up the sharpening blocks in preparation for my big shaving experience.

     Let me just say that he was in his element! He stood, stooped over his prehistoric meat block, slowly and methodically dragging the blade down the narrow stone. It made a dull hiss as it went. His hands, worn with age, shook a little as he worked. "Denver, you be careful!" My grandmother said verbally fulfilling her role as the family worry-wart.

     It was around this time that my family made a concerted effort to hide my grandfathers knives. He also lost his ability to drive an automobile. His hands had become unreliable, as had his eyesight. Perhaps I should have sought out a more efficient and safe means for getting my straight edge sharpened. I didn't care if it was not perfect, I'd rather have my grandfather sharpen it because I knew how much he would enjoy the experience. I also knew that the risk of him injuring himself was minimal. "Man alive.....Hits' sharp enough to cut through paper. Go snatch-um bald-headed!" He chuckled a little as he handed me the razor. I went down the hall to the back bathroom and started making the necessary arrangements.

     I wanted to go slow as it was my first experience with a straight edge. I ran hot water, mixed my soap into a lather, brushed a healthy amount of foam on my face and took a deep breath. From the first stroke of the blade against my bare cheek it became evident that the blade had not been properly sharpened. It felt as though the blade were pulling my hair rather than cutting it. It was dreadfully painful and took twice the amount of time of a modern conventional razor. I entertained the idea of taking it back to my grandfather to see if he could get it sharper, but I knew that the dullness was due to his age and not his skill. 

     Midway through my shave, I emerged from the bathroom my face bleeding in spots and chapped with a redness that you would normally associate with a bad sunburn. I had only shaved about fifty percent of my face and a brief intermission was needed. My mother looked upset she begged me to stop. "You'll regret it. I don't think what your doing is very smart," she said with a scornful look. I ignored her protests. I was fully into this thing, be it good or bad. I learned later from my wife that my mother implored my wife to step in and put a stop to it. My wife's response was "It's his face." My mother seemed shocked by this response, for it was always the role of women in her culture to step in and save there foolish husbands when such things occurred.

     Halfway into round two, the bathroom door slowly opened. It opened just large enough for a hand to slip through. A hand holding a glass of much needed Even and Williams black label bourbon. Not a word was exchanged as my grandfather placed the bourbon on the sink counter-top. The door closed. It was like the moment in Bloodsport when Frank Dux was loosing dramatically to opponent Chong Li. Then the whole fight turned around after he had his emotional flashback sequence. The bourbon on the sink was like the turning point for me.

     Ten minutes later I exited the bathroom with an empty glass and grinning like a opossum. My red swollen face showed the battle scars and I had emerged the victor.....or at least until the bourbon wore off. I never told my grandfather that the blade was dull. I didn't want to hurt his pride. He may have known and felt bad that I struggled through the ordeal. That would explain why he snuck me the bourbon without a word. Ether way, it's a great memory of mine.

   

      I never shaved with the straight edge razor after that. I thought about taking it to someone who could properly sharpen it, but it seemed like a lot of hassle to go through when you could just buy a package of disposable razors for five bucks at the grocery store. I recently learned that you can get a straight edge with disposable razor inserts. I am growing a beard now, but would be interested in this system for the future. I know that any time I pick up a straight edge razor I'm always reminded of my grandada's silent hand graciously bestowing Even and Williams upon me during my time of need.