The Shaving Ritual
Last
night I realized I was a man so I would
start looking like one.
Fresh out of the shower I stood in front of
the mirror that had become a portal
blurred with condensation.
It was time to shave what little hair I had
little hair sprouting like pint-sized stalks of
corn from a feeble harvest. My face is a feeble
harvest but it still has time.
For
a while I met my own young blue-eyes &
saw myself in a semi-narcissistic fashion.
A lukewarm water droplet inched
down from the corner of my (mirror) eye. I
have not cried in a long time.
When
I was no longer spellbound I rubbed a thin
layer of shaving cream on my face.
My face--round & rosy
with pensive eyebrows--sits atop
my stringy body. I am a balloon.
I shivered from the sensation of
shaving cream colder than
refrigerated butter.
The
razor blade was dull & contaminated with
my previous shaves but
I do not require much sharpness. Five minutes
later my face--complete with beady
lumps of blood beneath my chin (I always cut
myself in the process)--was bare
except for my mustache.
Last
night I decided I would never shave off
my mustache again. It separates
twenty-two years from sixteen years
just like the portal mirror separates
clean slates from mistakes
Europe from the United States & water from
wine.
Clean
-ing out the sink I gazed at the drain
that sucked down the last of something. When
exactly did this happen? Why did I
first touch that metal to my tender face
ten summers ago? My right hand
curled involuntarily to grip an
imaginary briefcase. A tie would be around
my neck soon.
Last night I stared at a man.
I have not cried in a long time.
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