I wonder if the display of boxwood is some sort of code for quality within. When in an unfamiliar place, one can bet the lunch money that the cafe with the boxwood planters will do the best oeuf poché, and would a lousy hotel really maintain a healthy boxwood border in its courtyard? Of course lesser establishments have caught on to this unspoken signal, and the display of convincing faux shrubberies has confused the matter somewhat. I’m surely not the only one to have pinched a suspect leaf on occasion to determine the true character of a proprietor.

If thickly matted ivy connotes permanence, boxwood, lush and neatly kept, signifies order, elegance and propriety. We plant ivy when we wish to relinquish control; the cultivation of boxwood is a statement of intent—living evidence to our audience that we wish to carve some rich order into our immediate environment. Not that boxwood is particularly expensive or high maintenance. One could just as well plant a few and permit them to grow leggy and wild. But this seems unlikely--boxwood almost wills its owner into action.

Happily, pruning is a deeply rewarding activity. And the tools are exciting. A proper boxwood border is going to need real hand shears with 18 inch blades, preferably serrated, and sturdy, offset handles. It takes a certain fearlessness to lay into a handsome row of boxwood, but as long as the cuts are kept to the exterior foliage, and not the interior stem structure, that gusto will be rewarded with the emergence of a rough form. While intricate spirals and severe geometrics seem appealing, enthusiasm for their upkeep will wane, and what could be sadder than a novelty shrubbery grown shaggy with neglect? I recommend the soft rectangle; it has the linear character for which boxwoods are famous with a roundness that forgives those Saturdays when pruning falls several rungs below shining shoes or ironing shirts.

Once a rough form is established, fine-tuning is best accomplished with a pair of topiary snips. These should be spring-activated and sharp for cutting through wayward and woody offshoots, and operable with one hand as you'll need the other to brush the snipped pieces to the ground. Mine look as if they were willed to me by some green-thumbed great grand-father; I’m not ashamed to admit that’s why I bought them from a fancy design store. I have both small snips and curved hand-shears—both make fast work of refining the boxwood’s rough shape, and with fewer snips than one might expect a polished line will appear.

Pruning is a strange cycle though. Removing foliage encourages new growth, and those fresh shoots might not mature enough before the first frost. So I prune in Spring, soon after the first new buds develop. This, I must admit, requires a strong constitution; lopping off this innocent and tender growth seems criminal. Persevere though: the only way to encourage density and uniformity is to prune. Of course over-pruning can be problematic too, creating too dense a shell while starving the interior of air and light.

Fearlessness, form, patience, perseverance, harmony—boxwood disperses some aerated cocktail of these qualities in its immediate environment. While handy in determining the better place for brunch, those who cultivate it at home soon learn boxwood’s real value: encouraging these same qualities in its owner.