Meet Mr. Razor

“James, I’m afraid it’s time.”

He stared at me, utterly baffled. “Time for what?”

“Let’s go check the bathroom mirror.”

He followed, more curious than anything else.

“Look at your face and tell me what’s there.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“You’re not looking hard enough.” I pointed to the shadow on his upper lip. “See that? Those are whiskers. And those aren’t the only ones, either. There are hairs sprouting out of your cheeks and chin, too. You’re growing up, bub.”

“But I don’t want whiskers.”

“You know what that means, don’t you? You’re going to have to shave.”

I’ve used all sorts of razors over the years. Multiblade, single blade and electric razors—all have scraped off my facial hair and exfoliated my cheeks. But the one I’ve settled on, after all these years, is the type I used when I started shaving, the old-fashioned, double-edged razor. My favorite is a solid, German made, stainless steel model that came into the house as a gift and will probably outlast my grandchildren.

With his face freshly scrubbed, James placed a dab of shaving cream on each cheek and spread it across his face and neck. “Where should I start?”

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter. My first stroke is beside my right ear, but you can begin wherever you want. Just remember to keep your skin taut.”

James took a tentative stroke down his cheek.

“Perfect. Do all your cheek, then lift your jaw and get your neck. Then we’ll do the other side, get your chin, and finish up with your mustache. Oh, and take your time. When you rush is when you’ll nick yourself.”

He rinsed his face and gazed into the mirror with horror. “Father, I’m bleeding!”

“Calm down.” I lifted a small cylinder. “This is a styptic pencil.”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.