As the razor drags across my neck, it lops off yet another millimeter of my beard. By the time I am done, I would have shaved my face using the four-pass method. It begins as soon as I get out of the shower and my face is still wet. I heat a pot of water and pour it into an old cereal bowl. The ceramic retains the heat. I soak my silvertip badger brush in hot water for about thirty seconds and watch the bristles swell. The dip into the lavender-scented soap is coupled with a twist designed to pick up the perfect dollop. The bowl is emptied and it still feels hot. The brush is swirled around in the bowl and immediately foam begins to happen. It is important to not whip it like cream nor to just swirl it around. The dance lasts as long as two minutes. The goal is to get the foam to retain as much water as possible without excess. This is a skill I have yet to master, but every day I get a step closer. The lavender taps my senses on the shoulder and whispers, “time to wake up.” The stiff peaks have formed in the bowl, I take the brush and lather my face with it, consciously trying to lift each hair off my face into an attention stance. I feel the warmth on my face and I am relaxed into alertness.
I don’t know many people who use an old fashioned safety razor (you know the ones that actually come with real razor blades) but unless you have, then you really can’t say you have experienced the art of shaving. I hold the handle at its midpoint and I let the weight of the blade guide me as I make a north to south pass starting at my right sideburn. I continue in this fashion until I get to the left side; a couple of one inch strokes followed by a quick rinse in the sink (true confession time: I am ashamed to admit that I leave the water running while shaving. Sorry, Al Gore…but if it is any consolation, I recycle everything in the house). I then give my face a full rinse and I begin again. I take the luxurious foam and apply it to my face again and then follow a classic cross-cut pattern, something akin to one leg of the letter V. The procedure is repeated: rinse, lather, shave. But this time it is the opposite leg of the letter V. Slowly, I can see and hear that the stubble is being progressively reduced. Another quick rinse and a re-lather and my face is ready for the assertive across the grain cut. I need to stop and think about the myriad crazy loops and whirls my hair makes, especially on the neck.
I end the shave with a warm rinse followed by cold. I then splash some witch hazel astringent to help rinse of the excess soap. I open a special case and pull out an alum block. I truly have no idea what it is, but I do know that when I wipe it across my still wet face, I experience the most bracing feeling I know; almost a pain. It reminds me of an Italian saying: “Cosi buon, si famale.” It is so good, it hurts.
This process takes longer than my shower. It is not something I can realistically do every day, but it is something I crave every day.
I have no rituals or routines, I tell people. I don’t go to sleep at the same time, I don’t wake up at the same time. I don’t take the same road to work and I don’t watch the same things on TV. I use 4 different shampoos and I have to think about which one I want to use that day. I can run 5 miles one day and never run again for a month…and not miss it. I don’t go to church and I don’t put my socks on the same way each day. Sometimes, I get dressed in the bathroom and sometimes the bedroom. I almost never get the same item at a restaurant and I have 11 different cereals in the pantry. I listen to opera with the same fervor that I listen to Natalie Imbruglia. I don’t go food shopping on the same day each week and I sometimes need a diet soda, no matter how much I don’t like diet sodas. I don’t vacation in the same places (actually, I don’t vacation at all) and I always take a different route to the bathroom at work.
I call myself a writer (inasmuch as I convert thoughts into writing. No one has yet to pay me for the luxury of doing this, but I still call myself a writer). How should I feel when nearly every single thing I have ever read about the craft of writing mentions how ritualistic writers are? I hear story after story that successful writers will get up at four AM and set a goal for themselves. The goal could be a time goal; write for one hour and don’t stop, or it could be to write 1000 words, for example. I have even hear of a writer that would simply commit to sitting in front of his notebook for one hour even if all he did was stare at it.
That is not me. I am most productive in the morning until the day I become more productive in the evening. The thought of committing myself to simply writing is scary and that may be my ultimate deal-breaker.
As the morning continues, the brood wakes up and each demands to be the center of the universe. I have three kids and none of them has ever eaten the same food item. Hot cereal for Michael, toast with butter for Marc, and a Nicole is apparently on a 2 year fast. There is no time for rituals. The second I set my alarm for four in order to write, will be the same day that Marc gets up to tell me that the sky is blue.
What rituals, even small routines, do you have?
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