First
Shave
by Zach Atkins
I
used to watch in fear and awe when my brother would
shave.
He transformed his face into a white mess, and laboriously
plowed the snow and whiskers off his skin. I vowed
I would
only use an electric razor, hoping to sidestep the
inevitable.
My brother laughed at the prospect. My conscience
did too,
I knew one day I would have to hold life in my hands,
to carefully
remove the little pests off my face.
That
day came when I turned thirteen. I had a parasite
growing on my
upper lip, feasting on my flesh at the sacrifice
of my public appearance. It was a cloudy Saturday,
typically a lazy day, but my facial hair was growing
too confident, too rebellious. Like a surgical procedure,
I was surrounded by my father and brother. Precisely,
they lathered my lip up, covering my skin with the
stormy white clouds of impending doom. In my hand
they placed my surgical instrument, a fresh Sensor
3. The rubber grip provided little stability, nor
did it provide confidence. Rather the simple beauty
of the razor merely mocked my fate and face.
I
was told to plow off the shaving cream, with the
knowledge that the weeds beneath would be pulled
out of its soil, roots and all. It sounded so easy
coming from a jaded professional of rubbing blades
along one's face. Visions of TV ads intruded my
thought, quick and slick ... it sounded horrible.
I knew I had to give in, though. I lifted the tool
to ground zero. The hot water dribbled down my chin,
the precursor of the blood to follow. Gently, carefully,
slowly, exhaustively, fearfully easily, I eased
the razor along. I plowed through until
off
my skin, I lifted the blade. A straight-edged track
was left behind, a paved road, smooth skin was discovered
underneath. It was effortless, easy, and curiously
exciting. Quickly, I rinsed the razor, and did it
again. A second time victorious, the satisfaction
of killing the stubble and erasing any of their
record was fantastic. I mowed down the survivors,
leaving none left. All fell victim to my razor.
Now
every morning, I meticulously
inspect my face. Now the hair is in
fear when I shave. As soon as one
dares sprout their head above the surface,
I swoop in like a hungry hawk, and feed
the catch to my waiting master.
