The Philosophy of Shaving: Reflections on the Death of My Father

By David Michael Newstead

The Philosophy of Shaving is a book about overcoming grief. It connects one man's loss of his father as a boy to the fact that he was never taught how to shave. Rooted in the author's own experience, it is an exhaustive attempt to learn every aspect of shaving as a way to talk about subjects like father figures and manhood. The book includes personal stories, interviews, shaving tips, and its cultural history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Michael Newstead
• Release date: May 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463942420

David Michael Newstead

David Michael Newstead is a writer and blogger.

Book preview

The Philosophy of Shaving

Reflections on the Death of My Father

By David Michael Newstead

Copyright © 2013 by David Michael Newstead

All rights reserved worldwide.

First Electronic Edition, 2013

No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher or the terms relayed to you herein.

Cover Design: W. H. Lewis, Gray’s Anatomy Twentieth Edition, 1918

Author: David Michael Newstead

Editor: Danielle Costello

Proofreader: Bree Gunter

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to Ryan Antalan, Julia Bacon, Susan Dynerman, Jarrett Jacobs, and all those I interviewed for their help with this book. I’m very grateful.

Also, thank you to the staff at The Art of Shaving in the Maryland and Washington, D.C. areas, as well as the staff at the Quinntessential Gentleman on 31 South Calvert Street in Baltimore.

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One - 1997

Chapter Two - Growing a Beard

Chapter Three - What Shaving Is

Chapter Four - The Process of Shaving

Chapter Five - Men in Their Own Words

Chapter Six - A Visit to The Art of Shaving

Chapter Seven - A Straight-Razor Shave

Chapter Eight - Assessing Yourself in the Mirror

Photographs

Bibliography

Introduction

In every shave there is a philosophy. – Anonymous

This book has been a personal journey of mine, a quest of sorts. It is a search for understanding and an attempt to master something I once struggled with. The Philosophy of Shaving is a way of looking at life and the past through the lens of an otherwise routine task that a man performs from puberty to the day he dies. And while that chore seemingly has no greater meaning, it is done all over the world. Among men, shaving your face is a common thread. It is an anchor and how many of us start our day. Every man was introduced to it when they were young and every man has to shave, trim, or style their facial hair eventually. Tied to that, routine activities are really a kind of meditation. While your hands are busy, your mind wanders.

But what makes shaving unique? Why not write a book about flossing or folding laundry or eating breakfast instead? The answer is that shaving your face is an expression of masculinity and the day you start shaving is an informal departure from one world and your induction into another. How that happened, how you change overtime, and how you look at yourself in the mirror is the Philosophy of Shaving. Partly, it is an autobiography of an activity, spread throughout each phase of your life. The other part is my own exhaustive effort to learn about it, master it, and transform a weakness of mine into a strength.

I was never taught how to shave, because my father died when I was thirteen. I never excelled at it or gave shaving much thought and I continued to do a mediocre job with this task for years. In 2013, that changed. I wanted to know the best ways to shave. I was determined to explore and write about the act of shaving, its history, and other people’s experiences with it. In doing so, I’ve interviewed shaving professionals as well as regular men. I’ve researched and read. I bought new products and I tried out new approaches to a familiar activity. This book is the sum total of those efforts: a collection of practical tips, expert opinions, and ideas on the routine and ritual of shaving. But to get there, I have to go back to the beginning. This story really starts in front of a bathroom mirror in 1997, on the last day I’d ever see my father. And it ends in front of a bathroom mirror in 2013 with me as a thirty-year-old man.

My father, David Roy Newstead, 1983

Chapter One

1997

A man’s face is his autobiography. – Oscar Wilde

My father died suddenly in January 1997. It was over the Christmas break and unexpected, traumatic even. I was in seventh grade at the time. My father hadn’t been feeling well for about a week, but nothing appeared to be that serious. Over the holidays, he took it easy. Everyone was on vacation from work and school, but we’d all be unprepared for what happened. He died of spinal meningitis, which is a dangerous and rapid disease that can be mistaken for the flu and kills a person unless it’s detected in its earliest stages. I was thirteen-years-old and I mention it now because no one ever taught me how to shave. That wasn’t purposeful though and it wasn’t neglect. It was just circumstantial to my age when my dad passed away. In the chaos that followed his death, learning to shave among other things got lost along the way. And it would be many years before it ever occurred to me to re-visit the issue.

What I will say about that day is that it caught everyone off guard. My father’s death was like being broadsided by a train, and whether I like it or not, it’s a major event in my childhood and my formation as a person. It was the weekend, around noon. Christmas vacation would soon be coming to a close. My mom and I had come back from eating at Fazoli’s Italian restaurant. My dad had stayed home, resting, because he didn’t feel well. Perhaps half an hour went by from the time I’d walked in the door after lunch. I was downstairs watching a Nickelodeon show called Space Cases when my mother began calling me for help. She had discovered my dad, collapsed and unconscious on the floor of our upstairs bathroom. She needed me to hold him up while she went to call 9-1-1. So she left and I tried my best to prop him up. He was non-responsive and I didn’t know it then, but this was the last time I would ever be in the presence of my father. A sink and mirror were in front of me and a bathtub behind us. I remember him being very heavy and I felt somewhat guilty for being so physically weak, my muscles too immature to handle this responsibility. An unconscious human body is incredibly difficult to handle, more so for a child trying to lift an adult. The weight distribution and constant force of gravity works against you. I fumbled around from the start. He was in a seated position, his legs spread out on the tile floor. His upper body leaned backwards, then shifted each time I managed to keep him from falling. I tried to brace myself on whatever was around me, while I grabbed his clothes for leverage. I don’t recall saying anything; I don’t think I did at least. If I had, it was brief and confused.

Dad? I asked, my voice wrapped in panic.

If my life depended on it now, I can’t say for sure how long we were alone in that position, him leaning backwards, unconscious, and me struggling in vain to support his body weight. No matter what, it felt like a long time. Significant. My back was flush to the side of the bathtub. We faced the mirror and sink. His eyes were closed. The bathroom door hung open and light came in through the window. These were my last moments with my father. I would never be around him again alive, unconscious, or as a corpse. Meningitis does a disturbing amount of bodily damage in a short period of time. Because of this, my father would be cremated.

Sometime later, the ambulance arrived and took him to the hospital. It was a very sunny and nice day, but cold outside. Initially, I went to the emergency room with my mother, but we separated and I would change locations maybe two or three more times that day. I went from relative’s house to relative’s house. I was planted in front of a television set to watch cartoons and to placate me, probably. I was fed. I watched TV and was left alone. Old Hanna-Barbera shows were still playing back then as re-runs.

My last stop that afternoon was my grandmother’s house, where I camped out in the den. The small side room had a couch, two book cases, and a long airstrip of carpet facing the cable TV.