Our first Christmas together as a married couple, I got Jul a straight razor. I don’t know why; it is certainly not romantic, but I remember him telling me that he thought straight razors looked really cool, especially in those Westerns, so I got him one. I remember running all over Lyon trying to find a shop that actually sold one: apparently you can only get them in these snotty leather/blade shops (and believe me, it isn’t the cheapest thing in the world), but it is a Beautiful Object nevertheless (the shop also sold a samurai sword, but samurai swords are reserved for the 10 or 15 year anniversaries. I think. That’s a special ninja blade.)
When he opened the box, he ooohed and ahhhed in delight at having received something utterly cool (I, too, oohed and ahhed – he had gotten me a Wacom pad).
I think it was a Sunday, a few weeks later, when he emerged from the bathroom, his face full of cuts and scrapes and random drops of blood. “Look!” he said proudly, “I used the shaving blade!”
“My God, are you all right?” I put my book down and rushed to his side.
“Yeah,” he said, gingerly rubbing a clear part of his face. “It’s just hard to use that thing, you know, especially if you aren’t used to it.” He paused, deep in thought. “The barber in Jordan made it look so easy.”
“The barber in Jordan wasn’t lacerating his own face, that’s why it looked easy,” I told him.
“But I’ll get used to it,” he told me. “As soon as I find the technique.”
Three years later, I was cleaning out the bathroom cabinet and found the razor.
“Hey!” I poked my head around the door of the living room. “Do you still use this razor, at least?”
“From time to time,” he replied, a little too quickly.
“Hmmm,” I said. “I’ve never really seen you use it.”
There was a long pause, then he said, “I’m scared to use it.”
