A Close Shave

A Close Shave…..

Today’s youngsters are all Virat Kohli look alikes….clones, same bearded chins with hardly any clean cut faces. I wonder why has this reverse evolution commenced in the men folk,  where they have got so entangled in the facial hair that they have messed up Darwin’s treatise itself. At this rate,  soon they should be growing their vestigial tails on their derriere! I actually feel sorry for the girls too as they have very little choice, it must be quite a task for poor Anushka to spot Virat from the 10 other identically bearded blokes on the field. Ironically  Team India is sponsored by Gillette, I wonder why….their ad agency needs to be sacked. They must be crazy, if they think the shavers of the country will plump for their products because of their patriotic sporting zeal of sponsorsing Team India which comprises only hirsutes.

When we were kids, this daily ritual practised by our fathers was rather awe inspiring for our generation. We would monitor every action very closely as it was an essential part of growing up, something akin to the girls watching their mothers dressing up in the traditional saris all decked up. Their favourite attires were the chunni wrapped around like a sari in which they would proceed for their favourite passtime, no prizes for guessing… Shopping! An activity which is ‘sans pareil’ at every age, when it comes to the fairer sex of the species. 

So getting back to more masculine pursuits, the once ubiquitous activity of shaving, which was an art, the fathers would invariably settle down comfortably on a chair with a table or a teepoy, where a mirror would be placed, we would run along to fetch hot water, the shaving round, brush and the razor would then make an appearance and be laid out majestically. There were no squeaky slimy shaving gels nor the obnoxious foaming ones, no messing of hands, the brush, which I was told of real animal hair(pigs), the brush would be immersed in the water and the stubble would be softened up for the task at hand. This activity was almost like caressing the chin in a rather delicate manner preparing it gently for the harder stuff ahead. After the foreplay, the brush would now make a contact with the shaving round, ‘Godrej’, very popular brand those days, and a vigourous bout would ensue, with brush emerging the winner with adequate lather ready for the plastering which now the face was due for.This activity required a little precision, so as to ensure that no part of the chin was omitted. The razor would then be opened to fit the blade, the razors had an elaborate mechanism, with a knob at the bottom being rotated to ‘open sesame’, the mighty razor, a Topaz blade would then be placed gently into the slot. The knob would turn again to close the opening, now finally the show was set to commence. With the precision of a surgeon, the razor would flow smoothly over the lathered face removing the stubble, all this while the face would be assuming rather dangerous contortions, to ensure no stubborn follicle managed to hoodwink the razor sharp eyes. The mopping up operation was generally a hurried affair, with a towel to wipe the extra left over lather and the razor being opened again to remove the blade for rinsing before being wiped clean and replaced in its cover safely tucked in for the next 24 hours, when it was to be summoned again for its duty, except on a Saturday, when the Sunday sabbatical was observed for the stubble as well. This activity was so mesmerising for the young minds that almost each kid attempted it on his own, ending up nicking himself in the bargain with a bloody face scaring the hell out of the young mothers. The dads were at the receiving end for not having been careful, that we scoundrels managed to get an access to such a dangerous gadget. 

We could hardly wait for the first signs of facial hair attempting to emerge from the dark recesses underneath the skin, when we again got to take a shot at it. By now I was a 16 year old with some growth on the upper lip which was visible, proudly twirling these strands of whiskers, we were soon to be jolted out of this treasured tache. The first casualty at the NDA Wing Ghorpuri was our little moustaches, which we had nurtured so proudly with lots of love and care! The drill instructors were deriving perverse pleasure in depriving us of our manly appearances and 300 of us were reduced to ‘chiknas’ with just a single swipe! The saving grace was we were all in the same boat..the misery was shared. But that was just the trailer, now the harder part of the daily shave before the first parade was looming large. The charm associated with shaving as a ritual which we had so keenly observed had been reduced to this monotonous mundane affair, where hurriedly we would go through the motions. Many a times just  dry shave and splash Old Spice after shave lotion,   so that drill instructor would be convinced that we had indeed done the needful. The alcohal in the lotion would cause a terrible burning sensation but we did not have a choice. After all a dry shave saved us those precious minutes in the morning, when everyone was in a tearing hurry. 

The closest shave of my entire life was reserved for a little later in the term, Flt Lt Grewal, or Gary as he was known in the Wing, was the duty officer and he appeared to have been at the receiving end from his better half, so we ended up as the lambs to be slaughtered. There were some of us who had skipped the shave that morning, with hardly any growth, we did manage this stunt every once in a while. Gary sir observed each of us closely almost as though using a magnifying glass and wherever, there was even a hint of a black spot anywhere on the chin, we were branded as defaulters. Punishments had to be meted out immediately and for effect!!! so the whole division was summoned, we were asked to get Colgate toothpaste, Cherry blossom polish and blanco, a gooey paste was formed and applied on our faces and then we were asked to use the razor to get rid of the invisible growth… The result was a number of snicks, with skin having been  literally peeled off the face and the mess that we made of ourselves, with the blood oozing from these incisions into the pasted face on it was grotesque. He of course enjoyed it thoroughly, went back laughing all the way. We had learnt our lesson, never save the shave less you get shingled rather closely. As we realised soon enough, in one of the camps, it was the turn now of using another improvised device for shaving, which was akin to those used by the prehistoric homo erectus probably, yes we used the stones to scrub the stubble to the delight of the perpetrator, Capt Vijay Bakshi, who did not ‘baksh’ anybody!