I Never Learned How to Shave: A True Story

This writer never learned how to shave—something that would prove to be an unforeseeable issue that would haunt him for years. This is a true story.

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High school. Junior year. Homeroom. No shaving cream. No water. All I had was a cheap convenience store-bought razor and my dignity—which was quickly lost as I sat in the front of the room and performed my very first shave. This is pretty remarkable for me to say since I was 17 years old at the time, but I was a late bloomer. I grew five inches just that summer. My voice was finally less Elmo and more Snuffleupagus. And the peach fuzz on my face was starting to sprout a bit. All of these things made me feel like the that man society told me I was supposed to become, but there was one real big problem: I never learned how to shave. And this would prove to be an unforeseeable issue that would haunt me for years.

My initial reaction was to blame my father. He could grow a thick, coarse beard that he constantly maintained. Kept it clean. Low. Lined up. But he only used clippers—never a razor—to keep his facial hair tight. So, why would he expect me to do anything different? He had figured that it was a cultural thing for an African-American like himself to veer more towards clippers that could cut that wiry hair down to stubble fairly easily. But when the homeroom teacher at my strict Catholic school felt that my burgeoning moustache and wiry chin hairs had gone awry, it was time be put on those big-boy pants that all of my friends had worn for a few months—if not years by that point—and take that razor straight to the face. But my inexperience would allow me to go down a path that took entirely too long to be redirected.

That first incident wasn’t awful. Even though I had no water or cream and went every which direction I could go to get every little hair removed. I had the post-shave burn, but nothing too dramatic. I would eventually learn that water and soap or shaving cream helped, but it was never a regular occurrence since my facial hair grew few and far between. Then came college. A time when my facial hair could roam free like a bird and my shaves became more frequent since maintaining a clean moustache and styling my beard (Chin Strap City!) was an every-other-day chore. With practice, a game, or a workout everyday, I would take my shower in the locker room, head home to my dorm, and shave there with an old blade that I’d change out every couple of months with no regard for the quality and sharpness of it. This was an obvious issue since I wasn’t capturing my facial hair at its peak shaving time following a hot shower with my hairs standing at attention and my pores open, thus avoiding having to pull at dry, curled up hairs with a dull razor and causing issues. Which it did—a lot of them, and they went by the name of razor bumps, or as I liked to call it, “Rice Krispies Chin.” Those ingrown hairs would be my worst enemy for a few years. The dryness would get worse, then the area in which my hair grew in became discolored. I was ashamed.

I’d go weeks without touching my face. I’d spent money on all different sorts of quick-fix lotions and soaps to try and alleviate the issue, not really taking into account that my skin and coarse facial hair needed special attention. I never took the time to learn how my situation was different from everyone else’s, so I continued to try and do what everyone else did. That was, until I had a sit down with my barber.

Now, if you know anything about a black barbershop, then you know that they like to crack jokes on everyone all the time. The embarrassing issue under my chin was a source of some of those jokes, especially when I tried to hide it with uncouth facial hair. I had gone weeks without shaving, which wasn’t like me, but my barber understood why. I told him that I was just going to either grow it out or have him take it down for me every couple of days, which, as you could imagine, would be a pain for both of us. He asked me what my shaving routine was—a routine that changed day-to-day depending on my schedule. He knew before he even asked the question that I wasn’t going about shaving the right away, but he wanted to see just how messed up it was before he dove in. I told him that I often shaved an hour or more after I showered. I told him that I often shaved against the grain to get the closest shave. But it was what I didn’t tell him that would prove to be my differentiating factor: I had extremely dry skin.

I suffered from pretty bad eczema as a child, but it never really crept up to my face until I began shaving. I’m not sure how I never put two and two together, but that was a big cause of my issue because of the timing of my post-shower shave.

His advice was simple, but it changed my routine—and my life—for the better. First, I needed to get a quality razor with replaceable blades. Then, a shaving cream with cooling after-shave effects. Use a good facial cleanser while in the shower, and instead of waiting until I got out to shave, do it right after the rinse, right there, immediately. Take that shaving cream and that blade and only shave with the grain. Only style your facial hair out of the shower, if need be. Use a good after-shave facial lotion that would keep skin soft and moisturized.

It was a simple and straightforward revelation that was five years in the making.

No more Rice Krispies bumps. No more discoloration. No more discomfort or embarrassment or suffering. I see guys like myself all the time going through the same issues that I did and wonder if they’ve ever received the proper shaving instructions. It’s something that should come so easy, but, if uninformed, could turn disastrous. Simple fixes like cleaning your face properly pre-shave, making sure your shave occurs immediately after (or even during) a shower, and, of course, using a quality razor with sharp blades that are changed out after a few weeks of use. These three things can make all the difference between a face with years and years of continuous issues and one that you are proud to display.

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