I have told a few people that my ultimate dream would be to saddle up and live a life herding cattle around the American interior. If I were to come up with a ball park figure of how many people then laughed at this idea, I would have to gauge at around ninety percent. In all honesty, I can’t figure this out. Granted my idealised version of what a cowboy is and does is primarily based on however John Ford wanted to portray their life and however John Wayne or Clint Eastwood wanted to relate those characters to me on the big screen. Nevertheless, for a good while now all I have truly wanted to do is put on some cowboy boots and escape into a life of solitary freedom. Such an act (if a few details were changed) would be considered religious, an act of great solitude is on the verge of saintly – but no I am laughed at for wanting this life. It is true that I am English and don’t particularly live in a world of marauding cattle or even great wide open spaces – it is possibly it was this juxtaposition that many find an amusing situation. However, as I said, this is a dream. Dreams are meant to suspend our disbeliefs. Dreams are meant to raise us to a place that common day drudgery can never take us. We therefore are left with the option of placing these dreams on a shelf out of sight out of mind, or we can do things that can make these dreams a little more tangible.
For my many sins, I have chosen the latter. This is not to say it is the best option, only to say that it is the option that I have taken. It is said that you should never meet your idol – I think the same could be said about meeting your dreams. However, I’m a weak person with a strong desire. Thankfully satiating these impulses doesn’t take too much of a financial outlay. Country music was my first port of call. A tweet to Bob Harris on BBC Radio 2 was the first step, and I was at once accepted into a world of great kindness. Armed with so many artists I needed to check out, I went to the local record shop and was surprised to find a well stocked country selection that was, albeit dusty, well stocked. Listening to this music transformed my world. The scene was changing around the windows of my cars – no longer was it a built environment, but it was the world that I longed for.
The next stage of feeding my dream was to buy a belt. Not one of these slim line bits of faux leather, but a real belt that you definitely wouldn’t want to have been hit with as a child. My search led me to a vintage clothes shop in Liverpool. Here I found two wonderful snapper belts. One plain black leather that had seen better days, but would see many more days resting on my hips, and the other was a real crowd pleaser (and by crowd I mean me). The belt was about two inches wide of brown leather perfection. Studded with magical metal to add a bit of sparkle to proceedings – this belt was and is a jewel. Like anything regal this belt needed a crown. To the internet I went. A belt buckle was needed.
The buckle I found, and which I have on right now, is something of greatness. Size is everything, and in my insecurity I went pretty big. An eagle in flight is emblazoned across the front of the buckle. The weight of the thing is also something to behold. I am pretty sure the belt and buckle combined weigh vastly more than the jeans that they are supposed to be supporting. But this isn’t practicality that we are talking about this is dream hunting. And not just any dream this is cowboy dreaming.
The final thing that I want to talk about, and the reason for this post is my latest acquisition. A straight razor. Now questions may be raised about manliness and they may be necessary – I think this latest purchase possibly could be my pre-mid-life crisis, but I took the plunge – why the heck not?
Well it turns out that there are many reasons.
I had no idea so much needed to be done before taking on the act of shaving this way. There was the insurance, the will, the notes explaining my untimely death – some of these may be in jest, but seriously shaving this way is something not to take lightly. I read articles online and I watched more than my fair share of tutorials (now every time I turn on Youtube I’m greeted with a well lathered chin). I was herefore well aware that a steady and slow hand were necessary to complete this task successfully. Taut skin, well lathered cheeks to make the whiskers ready, blade held at between 20 and 30 degrees – now surely you must be kidding. The contortion required to hold the blade, pull the skin tight, and still see yourself in the mirror is one of great artistry.
All these provisos in place means one can begin the shave. Now I am a balding man – and for purposes of neatness I shave the whole of my head, so I took the very honourable decision to do the dome with the normal razor and leave my face to the straight razor. Head done in a jiffy. And the once relatively simple process of shaving, which took about ten to fifteen minutes was about to become a little longer. Now don’t forget all of this was because I dream of being a cowboy – never have I felt so stupid.
Forty-five minutes later I emerged a different man – a man who seemed to have been placed in an arena with a slightly annoyed cat. For sure my whiskers had been removed and only a little bit of skin. The hot water had made my blood rather eager to leave my body as evidenced with the pool that colleced in my belly button. Nevertheless my shaving virginity was well and truly taken. I felt like I proved myself. To nobody but me, and it was a wonderful feeling. The dream was still alive – I can still dream of being a cowboy. No amount of lost blood, heavy belts, or country music will dampen this desire. I’m going to get in that angry cat arena and shave again. So yes the exterior view is all about style when it comes to this dream, but there is so much to it than that – with every step I take this dream is adding substance to me it is adding a page of story to my life.
liberalknight 