My father. They say that we grow up wanting to marry our fathers. I wanted to be my father. A quiet man. He very often didn't know how to handle my desperately seeking adventure leanings, so instead he encouraged it. He didn't know how to handle the intricacies of communication, so instead he taught me the importance of ritual. We had our rituals, the most significant of which was the morning shave. In a world that often felt chaotic, those moments in the early morning provided a sense of stability, intimacy, and connection that would come to shape my understanding of love, tradition, and identity.
I would sit on the edge of the bathroom counter, my little legs swinging, as I watched my father go through the meticulous process of his morning shave. His hands moved with a delicate precision that fascinated me. The ritual began with him lifting off the lid of a porcelain shaving bowl that had been his father's. The bowl was chipped at the rim, a testament to its years of faithful service, and the scent of sandalwood soap immediately twirled its way into my senses, a scent that implied that serious business was about to begin.
The old-fashioned shaving brush, with its bristles worn but still soft, was the next player in this morning dance. Every morning he would say, "Silvertip next", and I'd say, "made from a badger's bum". He'd always chuckle, and tickle me on the tip of my nose before dipping the brush in warm water, then swirling it around the bowl until a rich, creamy lather formed. He would often let me help, guiding my small hand as I stirred, teaching me the exact amount of pressure needed to create the perfect consistency. "Not too hard, my boy," he'd say, a twinkle in his eye, "we don't want to ruin the brush."
Those words. "My boy." They had two children before I was born. Both passed as infants. It broke my mother, and I unfortunately broke her further. But from the moment I was born, I was always my father's boy. In our little world, he made no distinction between what a son or daughter could learn or do. He shared everything with me—his love for motor racing and rallying, music, engineering, and this, the ritual of the morning shave. In his eyes, I was capable of anything, and in those moments, I felt it.
The act of shaving itself was almost ceremonial. After ensuring the lather was just right, he would apply it to his face in slow, deliberate circles. The brush would glide over his skin, leaving a trail of white foam that looked like a canvas waiting for an artist’s touch. He always looked so serious, so focused, as he stared into the mirror, ensuring every inch of his stubble was covered.
Then came the razor. It had a wooden handle and a double-edge blade that half-thrilled and half-terrified me every time he replaced it. A relic of a bygone era where things were made to last, to be cherished and handed down. He showed me how to hold it, how to respect its sharpness, and most importantly, how to move it smoothly over the skin to avoid nicks and cuts. "It's all about the angle and the pressure," he’d explain, "too steep and you’ll cut yourself, too shallow and you won't get a close shave."
As I watched, I would marvel at the transformation. With each careful stroke, he removed the lather, revealing smooth skin beneath. The process was slow, methodical, almost meditative. I could tell it wasn’t just about grooming for him—it was a moment of reflection, a few minutes of peace before the busyness of the day began. I admired his patience and the pride he took in this simple task.
The final step was my favorite. After rinsing his face with cold water, he’d pat it dry with a soft towel and then reach for a glass bottle filled with aftershave. The scent of cedar and spices would fill the room, a scent that even now, years later, can transport me back to that bathroom and those precious mornings. I don't recall which brand he used, and in stark contrast to today where everything is about the label, the mark, the brand, it's comforting to know that it didn't matter. It was just there.
He would pour a small amount into his palms, rub them together, and then apply it to his face, wincing slightly at the sting. It was in these moments, his face slightly flushed from the cold water and the aftershave, that he would turn to me with a smile and a wink, and say, "That's the only scent to use, my boy. Anything less..." and I'd hurry to complete the sentence, "is like badger piss!", I'd say proudly. I'd cross my plump little arms and complete the ritual. It infuriated mother no end, the fact he'd taught me to swear, but it made it all the sweeter.
There were other rituals that he included me in, winding his wristwatch, soldering, building, driving. As I grew older though, the mornings became less frequent, but the bond was always there just waiting for when it was needed most. Years later, when I had wildly run away from home and hitch-hiked across two countries, my father came to fetch me and saying nothing, he rubbed his hand across his chin and said, "That was a hell of a journey my boy, I need a shave". I sat with him once more, and the smell of cedarwood calmed and soothed me. And I knew it was going to be alright.
I don't feel particularly nostalgic and don't have an idealised longing for the past. Practically, the art of shaving and grooming has evolved with time, becoming faster and more convenient, but the essence of those moments remains unchanged for me. Electric shavers and disposable razors have replaced a straight or D/E razor and the morning ritual has become a quick necessity rather than a cherished moment of peace. The scents have changed too, with synthetic fragrances often replacing the natural, earthy smells of sandalwood and cedar. While technology has made grooming more efficient, it has also stripped away the intimacy and mindfulness that I experienced with my father. I now realize that the importance of ritual lies not in the act itself but in the intention behind it. My father’s shaving routine was a testament to taking time for oneself, to engaging in an act with care and precision. It was a daily reminder to find beauty in the mundane and to cherish the moments of solitude and reflection.
I carry forward the lessons learned in that small bathroom. I may not shave, but I find my own rituals—brewing a cup of good coffee for someone, writing letters, baking. These moments ground me, just as my father’s shaving ritual grounded him. They are my way of honoring the past while embracing the present. It is a testament to the power of shared experiences.
Each morning, I prepare coffee using an old moka pot, a tradition I’ve grown to love. Just as he did with his shaving brush and bowl, I take my time with each step, from grinding the beans to heating the water, savoring the rich aroma that fills the kitchen.
There’s something profoundly satisfying about the process. I certainly understand you can prepare exceptional coffee with the latest trending coffee makers; it’s about making time for something meaningful. As I watch the dark, fragrant coffee slowly bubble up into the pot, I’m reminded of the mornings I spent with my father, the lessons he taught me about patience, care, and taking pride in one’s actions.
It's a well known fact that I am considered a cold person, without the skill or temperament to love, not properly. But ritual has taught me that love is in the details, in the quiet, unspoken moments that build a relationship. It’s in the patience of teaching, the trust in letting go, and the pride in watching someone you love enjoy what you have made for them, with them. And though the tools and scents and trends may change, the essence of those rituals—the connection, the care, and the love—remains timeless. There is profound beauty and meaning in taking time for the simple moments and things. Things that live beyond the next trend, the next season, the next hashtag. And it’s in these simple moments and things that we often find the greatest connection to love.
Maybe I do want to marry a man like my father. A man who'll take the time to tickle my nose with a shaving brush.
Because anything less, is badger piss.
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