Close shave

The straight razor feels heavy in my hand, a proper tool for a mature gentleman. It looks timeless, just two lengths of polished steel attached by a narrow bolt that forms a basic hinge, with no branding or colorful markings. My reflection flashes across the polished handle: a blue eye, a receding hairline, a patch of stubble white with lather.

That is my target and I want it gone. I want a closer shave than I could ever get with my usual razor, the plasticky kind you can pick up at the grocery store. So I pinch at the blade and pull it open, revealing a long, perfect edge.

A clean shave sends a signal.

It says that a man is capable and ready for anything. It shows that he handles his business. It’s a sign of honesty, showing the world that he has nothing to hide, that he can present himself openly, without hesitation or adornment. A smooth face exudes confidence and comfort in a man’s own skin.

Beards are everywhere. What does that mean?

I want to feel that fresh, to cut against the grain and leave not so much as a prickle. I’ve done my research and found the right instrument for the job. A straight razor is a simple device. I’ve never shaved with one, but it looks safe enough.

I used to watch in the mirror as my barber finished off my haircuts in his tiny shop on State Street in downtown Salt Lake City: a dollop of warm shaving cream against my neck, a metallic flicker, the tug of cold steel and a clean wipe across smooth skin.

There was something hypnotic, almost meditative, in his precise, methodical work. It always left me feeling like a better version of myself. But now I live across the country. My last barber left his razor on the shelf and those peevish whiskers intact. I guess it’s up to me.

Catching my breath, I press the blade against my cheek and slide it down. The edge crackles right through those little hairs, leaving a clean vertical stripe. So far, so good. But on the next pass, I misjudge the angle, and that’s all it takes to derail the experience.

I nick the skin by my right ear, notch a slice near my lip and scramble for tissue paper to clean myself up. This undertaking requires more skill than I had accounted for, but I can’t stop halfway.

“Just go for it,” I keep telling myself as I inch along, chalking up new damage despite my caution.

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A splash of aftershave stings against every scrape and scratch, but it’s a relief to be done. The razor leaves me with a parting gift as I snap it shut, a little taunting wink of a slice on my finger — a reward for my hubris.

In the mirror, I see the same face, dotted with wads of paper, more cut than clean, somehow a little older and hopefully wiser. The wounds are temporary and I can see past that. I’ve tried something new and learned a bit about myself.

I’m no technician, just a man with a clean shave.

This story appears in the May 2026 issue of Deseret Magazine_._ Learn more about how to subscribe_._