Once, long ago, (about 18 months, actually) I tried a Feather.
With great respect I gingerly placed it against my face and kept it moving, never stopping, planning each swipe and stroke, letting it whisper it's deadly intent to my whiskers. Two passes were all my soul could muster and I lowered the razor in humility, uncut but barely shaven.
I was too new with a double edge, so I stepped back and dedicated myself to the basics. With Crystal tutors leading me through my elementary courses, I finally reached the point where I was slicing away with ease; north, than south, than touch-ups against the grain. I attained an almost constant BBS, and the old weepers on the side of my Adams apple faded to red splotches, then a memory. I was a competent shaver, with more than a year of practice.
So tonight, needing a fresh blade, I released a Feather from it's papery imprisonment and collared it snarling in my razor. With a familiar respect I began, slow but with a graduate's confidence, never pushing and with my usual angle. Three passes and I smiled, my fingers finding no grit. I washed my brush and scuttle and face and lifted my polished visage to the glass...
and like the tears of some hellish spirit, crimson began to flow. Slowly my neck wept at my arrogance, first here, then there. Another ruby bead joined them, and another, and soon my throat was bespeckled with the stinging dewdrops of a morning in Hades, while my Feathers snickered at me from the shelf.
It's a terrible thing, to stand in a fading cloud of soap aroma, bleeding, beginning to hurt, knowing you will be typing failure into the forums of Badger & Blade.
I have two theories. One, I have a semi-soft beard and a soft face, so it maybe my face is simply too tender for a Feather's edge.
The other theory is that a Feather, mounted in a Merkur HD as mine was, is too aggressive for my particular mug.
No matter the cause, it would seem that the loudly lauded Feather has found me unworthy.
I am... hamburger-ed.
With great respect I gingerly placed it against my face and kept it moving, never stopping, planning each swipe and stroke, letting it whisper it's deadly intent to my whiskers. Two passes were all my soul could muster and I lowered the razor in humility, uncut but barely shaven.
I was too new with a double edge, so I stepped back and dedicated myself to the basics. With Crystal tutors leading me through my elementary courses, I finally reached the point where I was slicing away with ease; north, than south, than touch-ups against the grain. I attained an almost constant BBS, and the old weepers on the side of my Adams apple faded to red splotches, then a memory. I was a competent shaver, with more than a year of practice.
So tonight, needing a fresh blade, I released a Feather from it's papery imprisonment and collared it snarling in my razor. With a familiar respect I began, slow but with a graduate's confidence, never pushing and with my usual angle. Three passes and I smiled, my fingers finding no grit. I washed my brush and scuttle and face and lifted my polished visage to the glass...
and like the tears of some hellish spirit, crimson began to flow. Slowly my neck wept at my arrogance, first here, then there. Another ruby bead joined them, and another, and soon my throat was bespeckled with the stinging dewdrops of a morning in Hades, while my Feathers snickered at me from the shelf.
It's a terrible thing, to stand in a fading cloud of soap aroma, bleeding, beginning to hurt, knowing you will be typing failure into the forums of Badger & Blade.
I have two theories. One, I have a semi-soft beard and a soft face, so it maybe my face is simply too tender for a Feather's edge.
The other theory is that a Feather, mounted in a Merkur HD as mine was, is too aggressive for my particular mug.
No matter the cause, it would seem that the loudly lauded Feather has found me unworthy.
I am... hamburger-ed.
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