PAPA’S MAGNIFICENT MUSTACHE
My great grandpa Vincenzo, like most men of the early 20th century, took great pride in sporting a well-groomed, well-waxed, mustache. Papa's mustache was more than just a patch of hair over his upper lip. Indeed, to him, and to his generation, it was a representation of personal style, cultural lineage and, above all else, gentlemanly pride.
Papa cultivated his mustache the way others cultivated a garden or a personality. He trimmed it, clipped it, nourished it and brought it to luster.
Papa's generous "baffo", as he called it in his native Italian, was a part of his personality - the part of him that gave him his own unique and indelible image. Papa would no more think of shaving off his mustache as he would think of appearing in public without his trousers.
Today, as I try to reassemble the details of Papa Vincenzo's face, I find his image fading with each passing year. But there's one feature that remains indelible - his well-groomed mustache.
I was one of the youngest of Papa's great grandchildren, so by the time I came along his deep ebony black mustache had turned silvery white. Like a snow cap graces a mountain peak, papa's white mustache graced his glistening smile with dignity and charm.
There were times when living in a large household made me scarcely aware of the noisy sounds that my boisterous family could make. The exception to this rule came early every morning as the family scrambled for bathroom privileges.
Whether you wake up to a New England snowfall or a warm California sun, the first room everyone in the family heads for is invariably the bathroom. That's how it was when I was a kid. But it was the head of the household, Papa Vincenzo, who was always granted first admittance to this popular room. As the youngest grandchild, I had to wait the longest for my turn in the bathroom, but I really didn't mind. Like the rest of the kids I amused myself by watching Papa conduct his elaborate morning shaving ritual.
Like little doves, cloistered together on a telephone wire, my cousins and I sat ourselves down on the rim of the big porcelain bathtub to watch Papa shave his beard and trim his mustache. The performance took up a good 45minutes.
Each day, before papa began his morning shave, he would stare at his face in the bathroom mirror. Grasping his chin between his forefinger and thumb he'd contort his jaw, from side to side, as if looking for something intangible, perhaps a starting point for his razor. Like a great artist studies a blank canvas, waiting for divine inspiration, papa studied his reflection.
Before each shave papa filled the wash basin with very hot water. Then a small white towel was steeped in the water, rung out, and gingerly applied to his face. Next, from the shelf came his shaving mug, soap and boar brittle brush. The brush was used to whip the soap in his mug into a frothy lather.
I watched, intrigued, as Papa vigorously swirled his brush around and around the surface of his face covering his chin and cheeks in a frothy white beard of soap. At that moment, Papa looked to me as enchanting as old St. Nicholas.
Now his beard was prepared for the most important part of the shave, and the most risky. It was time to employ the straight razor. But, before the razor could be used, the blade had to be honed. He did this by slapping and drawing the razor blade up and down a long leather strap that hung by the side of his wash tray.
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