I have an odd notion of what happens when a man notices that his son has started growing some facial hair. First, it would be a moment that fills the father with a feeling of accomplishment, of transition, of pride ("My boy is becoming a man!").
The father would then load the son into the jeep and drive to the drug store where they would look over the shaving equipment. The father would point out the different kinds of razors with double-edge blades or single-edge injector blades. Maybe the father would even suggest an electric shaver, or, better, steer the kid away from ever using such a device. Then they'd consider the shaving creams. The father might explain why he prefers foam, gel, or maybe even soap and a brush.
Then the father and son would take the supplies home where the father would demonstrate good shaving technique. "Shave in the direction of the hairs' growth" (but then a kid with a little peach fuzz can't really see what direction the fuzz is growing...it's just growing out). Maybe the father would give advice about how to deal with nicks.
And, if the father is bold, he might even take this opportunity to explain what is going on in the boy's body that is causing hair to grow in new places and, if he's really, really bold, he might even use the event as an excuse for the dreaded, full-fledged birds and bees chat.
But that's not how life is.
What really happens is the father says "Beth, show your brother how to shave."
Beth showed her brother a razor that was in the bathroom. It was designed, at least marketed, to be for a woman's legs. And a bar of soap. Jack used an electric shaver so there were no real shaving supplies on hand. I don't know if Beth actually supervised any actual shaving that day.
For years shaving was an awkward, even shameful, activity. Nicks were especially scary. They gave the world proof that I had engaged in that ungodly behavior. I think Jack sensed my shame and enjoyed pointing out that I had nicked myself.
I don't know how long I used that ladies' razor. I don't know who else might have been using it at the time. Sometime, somebody gave me a little travel razor. It was in a tiny zippered case. Its tiny handle screwed onto the head that held a double-edge blade. That thing was a godsend. I finally had my own razor! And it was small enough that I could sneak it into the bathroom where I had it perform its shameful duty. I wonder where it came from.
But you know what? I know where it is! In my box of treasures! My happy little razor:
I eventually figured out shaving on my own. And I even got over the shame.
The birds and bees chat never happened.
7 comments:
It wasn't the last time that needed discussions never happened. I'm sorry for the feelings you had because of inadequate parenting. When I would defend you against the neighborhood bullies, I got told to quit "wrasslin'" with the boys. I could beat most of them up! Classic Jack just didn't have much of a clue...makes me wonder about how he grew up and what his Dad didn't do...
P.S. cool little razor. I wish I could find my box of treasures...
My heart is breaking.
Jack Classic missed so much joy by choosing not to be involved in our lives except to punish or shame. He never went to our school plays (Karen's kindergarten production of "The Littlest Angel" was quite the hit). I don't think he ever met any of our teachers, except for Miss Nelligan, my kindergarten teacher. First communions, Cub Scout events--nothing. And, as I recall, he didn't go to Poss's high school graduation.
Did we embarrass him? Was he ashamed of us? Why was anger the only emotion he could freely express? I was in my mid forties when he said for the first time, "I'm proud of you."
I think of the lines written by the American poet Witter Bynner about D. H. Lawrence:
I could not guess that joy could be
Selected for an enemy.
I feel for you.
I had nearly the same experience shaving. But instead of Beth, it was no-one. I had to figure it out by myself, as well as most other change-of-life (the first one!) feminine needs.
It wasn't a comfortable time. But then again, those years never are.
BTW, I agree "The Littlest Angel" was kick-ass.
Now that is an odd notion about fathers. But, I did get a used watch for graduation from my dad; unlike my brother who got a new one only to be taken away when he did something to piss piss off.
Luckily my Mom told me about deodorant and shaving. She even gave me a styptic pencil for nicks. Mom made a good single parent. Dad was a good Elk (Lodge 1812 El Cajon).
One more change-of-life memory.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table and asking a Question. My big brother jumped up, covered his ears and went shrieking down the hall. "I'm not hearing this! I'm not hearing this!"
I wept for days thinking how Jack deprived himself of the joy of attending that beautiful production of "The Littlest Angel." And a lot of other things.
And I feel really bd that I wasn't much help in the birds and bees category. In fact, I can think of a LOT of things I wasn't much help with.
I'm glad you mastered the art of shaving.
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