When it comes to shaving, I’m two-faced. One face I have been scraping with a blade since I was a teenager more than five decades ago, the other I recently started buzzing with an electric razor.

Neither face will make me a Hollywood star unless I stop shaving altogether and get the lead role in a remake of “The Wolf Man.”

So I left it up to my leading lady, who happens to be my wife, Sue, to decide which face is a cut above the other one.

I wouldn’t have thought to use an electric razor except that I was scheduled to have open-heart surgery and a hospital nurse suggested I stop shaving with a blade before the operation because any nick could become infected and I might end up being in, yes, a hairy situation.

“Do you draw blood when you shave?” she asked.

“Pretty much every morning,” I admitted. “It’s a good thing I don’t shave at night or I’d be food for vampires.”

“What blood type are you?” the nurse inquired.

“A-plus,” I responded. “It’s the only one I ever got, even in school.”

“You should stop shaving three days before the surgery,” she said. “And you won’t be able to shave for a few days afterward, so you might end up with a beard.”

“My wife wouldn’t like that,” I said. “And I’d probably get fleas.”

“Then you should buy an electric razor,” the nurse told me.

“Will it make me look neat and clean on the operating table?” I wondered.

“I’m sure the doctor will be impressed,” she said.

Fortunately, the surgery was canceled, but not before I purchased an electric razor.

When it arrived in the mail, I saw that it has three flexible blades (“adapts to every facial contour”) and a precision trimmer.

It also runs on batteries, so I wouldn’t have to plug it in and, when I inevitably dropped it in the sink, get the shock of my life.

Then my nose hairs would need trimming, too.

I took the shaver into the bathroom, turned it on and ran the buzzing device over cheek, jowl and the hair on my chinny chin chin — everywhere except my upper lip, which is covered by a mustache so thick I would need hedge clippers to remove it.

“Baby smooth!” Sue gushed. “And you didn’t cut yourself.”

The following week, I got a haircut from my barber, Maria, who said most of her male customers shave with a blade.

“I have a razor with twin blades,” I said. “I’m afraid to get one with five blades. I’d bleed to death.”

“How many do you need?” Maria said. “One or two are OK, but the other three are just for show.”

“Do you shave your customers?” I asked.

“No,” Maria said. “I only shave my legs. And I always nick my knees.”

“I guess that makes you nick-kneed,” I pointed out.

“You should get a professional shave,” Maria suggested.

“I have a better idea,” I said.

One morning, while Sue was out, I prepared for the Razor Challenge.

I slathered shaving cream over the left side of my face, popped a new twin blade into my traditional razor and slowly went over my two-day-old stubble, being especially careful on the tender spot just below the tip of my mustache. No blood.

Then I turned on my electric razor and, without cream, went over the right side of my face, adapting to every contour. I finished up with the precision trimmer.

When Sue came home, I asked her which side of my face felt smoother. She ran a hand over each cheek.

“The left one,” she said.

“That’s the blade side,” I told her.

“The right side is smooth, too, but not as nice as the left,” Sue said. “Still, the electric razor is easier, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “So maybe I’ll use both. And I’ll continue to be two-faced. But I draw the line at shaving my legs.”

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