I've seen depictions in tv, or on the movies, of a tender scene between father and son where the father instructs the son in the finer points of shaving. It's always a scene of shared tender manliness, a passing on of knowledge over the rising boundaries that are only just defining themselves between these two men, one a grim veteran of the art, the other a new recruit - but bristling to prove himself.
My dad never showed me how to shave. So in consequence, I guess, I've never been entirely comfortable with my technique. It could be he was just busy, or I don't know. Maybe I was a late bloomer, in terms of the ol' jaw-lawn. I don't remember. Maybe he just took a look at me and said, "this little f'er thinks he can figure everything out anyhow. HE'LL BE FINE."
And for that confidence, I thank you, dad. And I also allow for the possibility: maybe your dad never showed you, either. Maybe you yourself lived your life not knowing, not really knowing - how to shave. And if so: I know that pain. The fear of exposure. The insecurity, that people can tell. Or that people will look at your face, the job you did today, and say - "He just doesn't care."
But as much as I love you, dad - and as much as I respect your ways! But my way doesn't have to be your way. I'm breaking the cycle. If I have a son, I am going to teach my son how to shave.
And for me, that means a pretty scary step as well. At this late stage in the game, I am going to have to learn myself. How to shave. The right way how to shave.
I'm taking a class at Cabrillo.
3 comments:
I want this to be a real class so badly. I'm sure barbers were trained in the art of the straight-razor shave, and you could pick that up by scouting out one of the good ol' boys at the nearest barberpole.
I've instructed men in the art of tying a necktie, but it's not quite the same thing. Nearly so, but not quite. I mean, it's kind of a rite of passage, too, and in a way, it's one of the arts of civilized society. Just like debearding a man somehow makes him...tamer, so does the noose round his neck.
Maybe these things aren't all they're cracked up to be. Maybe your dad wanted you to live a little wilder, a little more free, than he had. It might have been his way of giving the nod to that little f'er.
"After their invention, all safety razors were single-bladed for 70 years. Then the first double-bladed razor was introduced. It only required 15 years for a third blade to be added, and then one year for the fourth and fifth. Fitting these five data points to a hyperbolic curve produced the prediction that within nine years of the calculation—by the year 2015—safety razors would have an infinite number of blades."
I think your Dad may have forseen the dangers ahead and was trying to protect you. Nuclear weapons won't end life as we know it... it'll be the disposable razor aka The Magical Sword of Infinite Darkness.
How the hell did I not reply then to these two beautiful comments?
I think I was stymied.
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