The hot shave. Not a particularly helpful moniker if you’re trying to unlock its mystery. Cold shaves are only a thing for the masochistic few. Even with just plain shaves there’s an expectation of some heat to open the pores and shear them whiskers. Indeed, we’ve evolved from the cowboy countenance care of water and a Bowie knife.

But to some degree we’ve evolved too far. When I was a young man, I wasn’t introduced to a hot shave, but a cheap Bic razor and a Barbosol can. Shaving became utilitarian, jettisoning any possibility of relaxation or facial appreciation for the man.

The hot shave returns a man to simpler times. Prior to being shaved, a hot towel is wrapped around the man’s head, allowing him to relax, have his pores opened and his face ready to receive a very sharp blade to shear his stubble smooth as butter.

Not every barber offers a hot shave. It’s a lost art – men aren’t looking for it. But I was. My buddy Jason and I were ready to expand our masculinity and have another man give us a very hot shave. But we’d have to look for it.

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We’d heard word of a barber bar in an adjacent town called “Revelry,” where presumably men could disappear for a day playing pool and checkers, drinking beer, getting haircuts, and if they wanted – a hot shave.

Both of us had prepared for the hot shave, choosing not to pick up a razor for several days. Jason was especially unshorn and couldn’t wait to part with his scratchy patches.

As we walked up to Revelry, only moments from our first ever hot shave, a few smoking men standing outside informed us that they were having an opening anniversary party that day, and would not be cutting hair.

It’s odd to go to an open barber shop and be told your hair won’t be cut. That’s like going to an open ice cream parlor and being told you can’t have ice cream, or an open rental car shop and being told there are no cars to drive.

But we couldn’t make them give us a hot shave. These were manly men with an astounding assortment of tats, noserings, and cigarettes, not to mention skilled pros in brandishing blades. If they didn’t want to shave us by golly I was going to be okay with that.

Sadly, similar establishments around town were booked for the day and similarly rejected our requests for a hot shave. We’d have to shave ourselves, grow back our whiskers, and return in a few weeks.

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Indeed our whiskers regrew and we were poised to return to Revelry Barber Shop on a day they were in fact barbering. This time we were joined by our friend Dave, who was supportive of our adventure and no stranger himself to the hot shave. Upon arrival we wandered around and pointed at things for a few minutes until someone told us how this whole hot shave business went down.

One of the barbers pointed to a sign-in sheet with many names on it, and told us what most people do is sign in and go run some errands and come back. He told us he could probably get to us around 6:30. It was 2:15.

I’m not sure what kind of father and husband is allowed to be away from the house that long “running errands” but I knew I wasn’t one of them. Jason obligatorily signed the sheet, just in case aliens came and miraculously exterminated all the men who were in front of us in the lobby or running errands. So we left and Dave started calling around for hot shaves.

Like the first time, it wasn’t easy to find a barber shop that offered a hot shave with no wait. After several calls, we found one: Chicago Style Cuts Barber Shop.

We headed across town and pulled into the parking lot of a slightly sketch shopping center. There were some international grocery stores, a vape shop, a laundromat, and a used electronics place where I bet you could negotiate over a $17 microwave. And then there was Chicago Style Cuts.

The name itself was already troubling for me, considering my head has no style, and if it did, I doubt it would look like Chicago. But it was only a hot shave I was after. Nothing fancy, just there to make my face bare.

As we walked into the barber shop, it was quickly apparent that diversity lived here. Black dudes, Arab dudes, and Latino dudes all in the house. My buddies and I added to the diversity as the white dude contingent. No records scratched at least, so I didn’t completely feel like I was in a movie.

When I say dudes I mean this place was filled with dudes. Like 8 barbers cutting as many people’s hair, and 10 more waiting for their seat. Yet again, our first activity was to put our names on a remarkably long sign-in sheet. No doubt we’d be waiting at least another hour to get our hot shave. We took a seat.

I had barely begun to unzip my jacket when one of the barbers pointed at us behind his empty chair and asked “who’s up?” There was no time to get more uncomfortable. I would be up, and I would be the first of my brethren to receive a hot shave in this foreign land.

I walked to the seat and shook hands with Stephen, a fairly young black guy wearing air pods and a backwards Yankees cap. I sat down and made my intentions known.

“I’d like to do a hot shave today.” It felt weird, but it felt good.

Stephen shook his head to the side. “Yeah, I don’t do a hot shave, man. You want a haircut or something?”

I definitely did not want a haircut or something. At this point I didn’t even want a hot shave. But I was in this chair, and Stephen was poised to do business.

“Nah,” I said. “Just hadn’t had a hot shave before and I wanted to do that today.”

“Yeah man, well I don’t have the towel and all that,” Stephen replied. “But I can shave ya.”

Oh was I in a pickle now. To drive across town to a rando barber shop for a regular shave was preposterous. But I had sat down in the man’s chair. I had an audience, who in my mind were undoubtedly thinking “what kinda Chicago-style cut is this white dude gonna get.” What was I going to do? Tell Stephen I didn’t want anything if I couldn’t get a hot shave, get up from the chair and go wait for a barber who could execute the hot shave? Not me, who for my sake or someone else’s is always going to keep the peace. So I said it.

“Yeah that’s cool. Shave me.”

The next 10 minutes weren’t particularly satisfying. Now, Stephen was a cool guy. We talked about LeBron a little, the being who bridges gaps across all demographics. Stephen told me to relax. But I was a man in a barber shop getting nothing but a regular shave. Not to mention I had zero cash and that’s all this place took. I was going to grab some from Dave after we walked in but didn’t get a chance because I was called to the chair so quick. So even if Stephen executed the most outstanding shave known to man, he wouldn’t get paid for it, until my buddy Dave came through and lended me his cash. Who knows if he’d be in his own chair by the time my regular shave was up.

Well, Stephen shaved me. With some foam and a straight razor. There was also some nose pinching, which I had to trust him with. I wasn’t really breathing anyway. When he finished, there was no grand aftershave solution. My face stung a little and I took it like a man who doesn’t tell people what he wants as often as he should.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked. According to the sign, a beard trim was $10-15. Surely a regular, non-hot face shave was less than that. Nope. $15 according to Stephen. I looked over at Dave, still waiting, who came and rescued me with a crisp twenty. I handed it to Stephen and thanked him. He replied the next time I came back he could maybe do a hot shave for me. I could only think that I was never coming back, a hot shave would’ve been most excellent TODAY, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get one.

When I went to sit down, I noticed my buddy Jason had settled into a chair in the corner of the shop. He had a steaming blue towel wrapped around his head, and his barber was preparing the hot shave. I rubbed my cheeks jealously and chuckled to myself. Another afternoon set aside for a hot shave, another afternoon I’d remain hot shaveless.

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After two tries, Jason had his hot shave. Yet on this day, I got a Stephen shave. A Shephen shave is a helluva lot like my own, but costs $20 and doesn’t feel as good. It may be the worst kind of shave. It’s not Stephen’s fault. He’d yet to be trained in the ways of the hot shave. And I didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to tell Stephen, “If this shave ain’t gonna be the hottest, most refreshing one of my life, then I’d prefer not to pay you a legit Jackson for something I could do on my own in half the time for free while naked.” I couldn’t say it.

Perhaps one day I’ll get the hot shave. Or perhaps I’ll wander this life, always looking for one, only to find barber shops that don’t barber, or thousands of men nowhere to be seen but somehow in line before me, or barbers who have no problem shaving a man but wetting a towel with hot water and wrapping it around a head is a skill only attained by the few truly experienced. Who knows? Herein lies the mystery of the hot shave.