You cannot reorganize village life to suit the village idiot.

I've always loved Mark Morford's columns in the San Francisco Gate (even during rare disagreements with his positions), but today he really hit the nail on the head. He discussed the three options when confronted with the neo-know-nothing "idiotosphere" that I have so frequently highlighted on MWG. The final and most effective strategy has a very definite appeal for me.

Read it.

Sometimes it's better to just leave things alone.

I consider myself relatively "Old School". I make pie crust by hand. I used to drive a 1966 Mustang hardtop. I know how to shine shoes. I like martinis. I know what a bespoke suit is, and want one. I like writing letters on good stationery, even though I haven't gotten a handwritten letter from anyone in a hundred years. I like black and white movies, and hate colorization. Ican drive a standard transmission. I hold doors open for women and help them on with their coat. I like fedora hats and cufflinks. I can tie a Windsor knot. I own a service of art deco silverplate. I know what Fibber McGee's closet was.

So it should come as no surprise that when I was presented with the opportunity to have a straight razor shave at a barber shop, I was intrigued. I've seen it done in the movies a hundred times, and my dad remembers when it was the way things were usually done. I entered the place and saw that it was clean, hip, and conspicuously retro. I thought that this would be a fun old-school experience.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

Things started off well. The delicious aroma of the shave oils, the multiple applications of various beard-softening agents and hot towels... all was fantastic. Then the shave started. I thought it was a little scratchy while he was doing it, but what the hell do I know? I assumed that all was well, and that I just needed to toughen up a little bit. After all, I don't even use a blade normally... I'm one of those electric razor types who long ago gave up on the possibility of a close shave from one of those things.

Then at the end I saw what had happened. I bled like a stuck pig. My face felt like it was on fire. I wondered how I would ever get back to the car. Later on, when the clotting had finally stopped the bleeding, I took this picture. I went to the bar to get a martini in the middle of the day to help deaden the pain. I don't know if it was my own stupid fault or not... but I can be relatively certain at this point that I will never ever do this again. If any of you ever EVER consider having this done to yourself, please call me and let me try to talk you down.

Some things really are better left in the past.