Forty years ago, give or take a whisker, my father taught me how to shave. We stood at the big sink in the hall bath, both of our razors at the ready. My dad, a vintage straight-blade man, showed me how to hold the handle at an angle, how to glide across my face instead of slicing. His hands steady, Dad was the very picture of confidence.
Me, not so much. I had waited so long for this moment, only to discover that I was clumsy with a razor. I was introduced to the styptic pencil, a painful invention that somehow worked miracles despite the sting. I learned how to tear off the smallest piece of tissue, loft it onto a fresh wound, and wait for the blood to congeal behind it.
I sliced and diced a lot, but eventually I learned how to shave. Mostly I wondered why I had wasted so much time looking forward to this ritual. For what? So I could carve open a fresh wound, sting myself with a wax pencil, then go off on my date with a scar?
Shaving is so overrated.
All of those memories came flooding back on Wednesday morning as I stepped into my father’s small apartment in suburban Kansas City. It’s a tidy place every Sunday evening, after my wife and I have finished the laundry, washed the dishes, and picked up the week’s mess. Then we kiss dad goodbye, shut the door, and the apartment swiftly reverts to its normal chaos.
Wednesday, as we made our regular midweek appearance, Dad greeted us at the door unshaven. Paul Newman’s eyes with white wisps of beard clinging to his shaggy chin. “Dad,” I chided him gently, “maybe it’s time for a shave.”
Expecting to find him this way, I was carrying a new shaver mixed in with the week’s groceries --- an electric appliance hidden among the hot dogs and Easy Mac. “Dad,” I told him, “I think maybe shaving would be easier with this.” I pulled the shaver out of its plastic cocoon and set it down on the table beside him.
Dad picked it up, admiring its heft and design. “This is a Norelco,” Dad beamed, “I can tell by the three heads.” He bounced it back and forth in his hands a bit, smiling.
A few wobbly steps on the worn carpet and there we stood, in the hall bath of his seniors-only apartment. I plugged in the new shaver and showed Dad how to work the pop-out trimmer on the side. “Use this on the longer stuff,” I advised him. “Then when you’re down to just the stubble, let those three heads do the work.”
Dad grinned at that, and I saw my youthful self in his face. Tentative, maybe a little uncertain, but happy to be learning a new ritual. We were back in our usual places, but this time our roles had switched up a little.
This time I was the confident one, calmly playing the part of teacher and mentor. I showed Dad a few tricks of the electric shaving trade, then wisely got out of his way. Dad is a man --- older and slower but no less a man than he’s ever been. He takes direction well, but he’ll want to figure this stuff out on his own. That’s what we men do.
That’s what I did, all those years ago, and it’s worked out pretty well overall. We men study and learn, but after a point we end up figuring things out on our own, by trial and error, by stupidity and repetition, by consequences and outcomes.
Dad will be a pro with his new razor soon, I have no doubt.
He’ll find some unshaven guy, somewhere down there on the second floor, and Dad will tell the guy he really ought to get a Norelco. And before the guy can even defend himself, Dad will be telling him exactly how the thing works, step by step.
Calm and confident, Dad will use his natural gifts as a teacher.
A mentor’s work is never done.
