I was nine when I began getting hair "down there." I remember kind of freaking out about it; not really sure what was going on. My father always slept naked, and was a pretty hairy guy, but I guess I never really paid any attention to where the hair was located. When the first few pubic hairs began sprouting, I told my father and he laughed.
"That's supposed to happen," he said. "All guys get hair there. It's natural."
I wasn't sure how to feel about that information. I had lived all of my life without hair, why did my body need hair in that spot all of the sudden at nine years old?
"That's not the only spot you'll get it," my father continued. "You'll start growing hair on your legs, and in a few years, you'll need to start shaving."
My dad was the kind of guy who could grow a beard in a week. He had a full mustache at 13 years old. It wasn't one of those goofy looking, peach fuzzy, thin concoctions that most pre-teens sport. It was a full-blown, whiskers kind of thing.
When he told me about his first stache, I was kind of excited. I assumed, since he was my father, and I had his genes, that I was going to have the same luck. The thought of having pubic hair growing no longer concerned me. I became obsessed with facial hair.
Every day, I would look in the mirror to check my progress. And every day, I became more and more disappointed. While my body was ready to offer me extra protection and warmth in the southern region, up above was truly a barren north pole.
I began to wonder how I could speed up the process, and concluded that the solution was that I had not given my face the opportunity to know it was time. I was too young and naive to understand the science behind puberty, so I came up with a theory: If I shaved, I'd solve my problem.
My dad was old school when it came to shaving equipment. He didn't like disposable or electric razors back then, opting for the traditional single blade razor. He also had a bristle brush and thick, lathery cream in a coffee cup to aid in the process.
One afternoon, I decided it was time. I grabbed my father's shaving equipment and brought it into my bathroom. Since I had watched my father repeat the process several times in my life, I mimicked what I observed. I wet the bristle brush, dipped it into the cup, and began loading the cream on my cheeks and chin. Then I took the razor blade and rinsed it under the faucet. Since my father's face was well adjusted to the process, he had no need to take his time. His face was not really prone to nicks and cuts, and he didn't need to take his time in the process. I assumed the same was true for me.
I quickly brought the razor blade down my right cheek a couple of times, and immediately saw blood. It didn't hurt, so I wasn't too concerned. I assumed since it was my "first time," the blood was normal. After a few drags of the razor down both sides of my face, the bloody show was a mess. And the pain began to intensify. Instead of finishing with the shave, I quickly began rinsing my face to get the cream off and stop the blood.
While I was successful at the former, the blood continued to flow with regularity. I tired dabbing my face with a towel. All that did was make a mess of my mother's linens. I used toiled paper, tissue paper, my t-shirt. Nothing would stop the bleeding. I knew I only had one final choice. I walked out of the bathroom and found my father. He immediately saw my face.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked. It was obvious, but I think he wanted to hear it from me. "Have you been shaving?"
I couldn't believe he figured it our so quickly. My first instinct was to lie. "Shaving? Not me. I have no idea how this happened. My face just started to bleed."
My father saw right through me. "Don't lie to me," he said. "What the hell are you doing to your face, and why are you shaving?"
"I didn't shave," in continued to insist. I wasn't ready to give in just yet. "Honest, I didn't."
If there's something I've inherited from my father, it's that he insisted that my brothers and I tell the truth. Never mind the fact that as we got older, the lies seemed to get easier and easier to tell. But at that young of an age, it was expected of us to still have a conscious, and it was expected that we be honest with our parents at all times. If we weren't and we were found out to be fibbing, our punishment would be worse. So when we did attempt to stretch the truth, we typically took it as far as we possibly could.
It was obvious that I disappointed my father with my actions and my words. Maybe he dreamed about the day he was going to offer to teach me how to shave. Maybe it was an unspoken "thing" for him. So much so, that he swore my brothers to secrecy when it was their turn, ensuring that the tradition would be adequately carried out with me when it was my time. Either way, I ruined the moment. Both with my lie and with my actions.
My father, done with the conversation, told me to go clean up my face. He told me to hold a wet cloth on it for five minutes. "The bleeding will eventually stop," he said.
I wouldn't begin really shaving for another seven years. Even then, I barely shaved once a month. When it was officially my time to add the ritual to my routine, I did not get any instruction from my dad. I asked my mother to buy me a pack of razors and a bottle of shaving cream from the store, and I simply just started shaving.
A few weeks ago, Frederic walked into my office and announced he had hair growing on his penis. He was excited. He was ready for a new stage in his life.
Armed with the knowledge of my past, I took a few minutes out of my day and explained to him the concept of men's hair growth. I told him he should expect to see hair growing in places he wouldn't expect. I told him that someday, not any time soon, he may even begin to get facial hair.
And then I told him to stay away from razor blades.
No comments:
Post a Comment