I was introduced to the joys of male hair removal by a man with a cut-throat razor in 1987. Then last weekend I expanded my horizons
I’ve only ever had three proper cut-throat razor shaves. The first was in Mostar, Bosnia-Herzegovina, in 1987. I had been travelling around Yugoslavia for a month and was in need of a haircut. In a pleasingly antiquated barbershop near the famous old bridge, a nice young woman gave me a brisk, unfussy cut.
As she executed some finishing touches, she asked whether I would care for a shave, too, while I was there. “Why not?” I said, and since neither of us could think of a reason why not, the deal was done. She patted my shoulder and went out the back of the shop saying something along the lines of: “I’ll go and get my grandad.” I thought I must have misheard, until she reappeared with a gentleman who was either her grandfather or great–grandfather. He was plainly the head of this shop’s shaving department. The girl brushed on some shaving cream and disappeared outside for a smoke.
