The tiny wisps of hair sprouting upon
my face, looking more like shadow or smudge
of dirt, seemed so timid and tentative,
I made the decision to take my brother's
straight razor, lather my face with warm water
and Barbasol, and began what I assumed
would be a clean and simple shave.
I guided the blade as steadily as I could
across a face which suddenly seemed
treacherous, not quite my own, the contours
of cheek bones and chin much sharper
than I had expected, small, unassuming landmines
hiding beneath every pore,
Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.
One by one, the tiny flowers of blood
began to blossom through that cloud of white,
and I emerged, defeated, my face covered
in bits of tissue, as if flags of surrender.
Later, my brother looked at me and said simply,
"Don't be in such a hurry to shave.
You'll have the rest of your life for that."
It was a gentle way, I suppose, of saying to
slow down, enjoy what was left of childhood.
The world of adulthood would come
soon enough, its own battles and rewards
yet to be named, its map lines gradually
becoming visible, as clear and undeniable as
your face gazing back from the mirror.
