Let me ask you a couple of questions. First, do you remember the moment you knew — I mean really knew — how incredibly sharp razor blades can be? Not because someone told you they’re sharp; but because you came to a real life understanding that these things take incision to a new and really dangerous dimension?

Next question. Do you remember the first time you saw Sophia Loren and Carlo Ponti together knowing they were married? I’m assuming it was a photograph — was for me. Do you remember your reaction to the fact that the most beautiful woman in the world (I didn’t know my wife Mary then) was married to a dumpy little four-eyed bald guy?

The reason I’m asking is that I remember both instances in high relief. And both occasions were important building blocks in my developing vision of what it means to be a man.

Let me explain.

When I was a kid, men shaved with safety razors. These were heavy precision tools designed to receive and secure a naked blade. Blades were individually unwrapped and carefully placed in the device. Then, guards on the device were screwed into place leaving a cutting edge slightly exposed to allow enough contact with the face to, hopefully, do the job with a minimum of bloodshed.

I remember watching dad perform this operation. I remember asking if I could shave too. I remember dad telling me these blades were not for children. They were sharp and would hurt me if I tried to fool around with them. I’d have to wait ‘til I grew up a little bit before I could touch a razor. I was skeptical. I don’t remember how I plotted it, but when dad was gone and mom was occupied, I got the razor package and unwrapped one. Quicker than you can say “Gillette,” the thin, evil monster had laid my thumb open; no threats, no warnings, no hesitation; just speedy, heartless damage to the digit of a poor little kid who only wanted to play with it.

When the bleeding stopped and the thumb was bandaged, I faced up to some important facts. First, I was never gonna play with razors again — even if they started making them out of rubber. Too dangerous. Next, if the old man said something was dangerous, I’d better pay attention. Not that I had to agree with him every time; but I’d darn sure handle the situation with some care.

When time did come for me to start shaving, we were still using safety razors — no electric gizmos, no “3 blade, super-gel, astro-glide, nano-tech, Hollywood, aero smell” disposables. Just really sharp metal locked in a safety device. No guarantees. If you were careless, you could still lose a lobe.

I wasn’t happy about this shaving deal for two reasons: One, as I’ve pointed out, it was dangerous and I was clumsy. Next, to shave, I had to look close at my own face. All I could see was a kid with pimples who was cock-eyed to boot. With a face like mine, how could I ever hope to get a second glance from Sophia Loren?

About this time, I saw a picture of Sophia and her husband, Carlo Ponti. I couldn’t believe it. She should have been married to someone like Gregory Peck, Gary Cooper, Cary Grant — guys like that. How could she possibly be in love with a guy who looked something like Wimpy in the Popeye cartoons? At first I was disappointed. But then the truth started filtering into my adolescent brain. Maybe ole Carlo had something to offer that compensated for his lack of matinee looks. Maybe a guy could attract beautiful women even if he is cockeyed, hates shaving and is in puberty.

So I decided to take the bull by its dangerous horns and make the best of a marginal situation. I started shaving every day and trying to get adjusted to the fact that my looks were just what they were and that didn’t necessarily count me out as a good catch for someone.

Now don’t think I’m telling you all this just because I’m self indulgent. These lessons are worth keeping in mind when considering what it takes to grow up. A manly man may disagree with his elders, but he darn sure takes their opinions into account. And a manly man knows you don’t have to look like a movie star to get the girl. Oh by the way, Jan. 10 is the third anniversary of Carlo Ponti’s death. Thanks Carlo.

I’m Hink and I’ll see ya.