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  "path": "/magazine/2026/05/15/shaving-with-a-straight-razor/",
  "publishedAt": "2026-05-15T19:37:27.000Z",
  "site": "https://www.deseret.com",
  "tags": [
    "Beards are everywhere. What does that mean?",
    "The tie that binds: An ode to a half-Windsor knot",
    "Deseret Magazine",
    "Learn more about how to subscribe"
  ],
  "textContent": "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.\n\nThat 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.\n\nA clean shave sends a signal.\n\nIt 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.\n\nBeards are everywhere. What does that mean?\n\nI 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.\n\nI 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.\n\nThere 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.\n\nCatching 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.\n\nI 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.\n\n“Just go for it,” I keep telling myself as I inch along, chalking up new damage despite my caution.\n\nThe tie that binds: An ode to a half-Windsor knot\n\nA 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.\n\nIn 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.\n\nI’m no technician, just a man with a clean shave.\n\n_This story appears in the May 2026 issue of_  Deseret Magazine_._  Learn more about how to subscribe_._",
  "title": "Close shave"
}