Let me quickly tell you about a shaving incident I witnessed many many years ago in a sleepy, dusty little town called Pushkar in the state of Rajasthan, India. My boyfriend at the time, Christopher, and I were wandering the street (there was only one street to wander) and were summoned by a blind man and his son to step inside their barber shop for a quick (vetty vetty cheap cheap) shave. It was incredibly toasty on the street and their modest, carved-out hole of a place had a fan spinning air to cool sweaty white bodies like ours. We had awfully sweaty bodies in those days, still white. Christopher lumbered into the chair. The son handed the father a straight edge razor blade and, using only his voice (a soft whisper of Hindu) guided the father's hand across the contours of Christopher's face.
