almost okay

The Perfect Shave

Freshly showered I pick up the razor and look at myself in the mirror as steam rises from the tap.
Sometimes I barely recognize my face these days, can scarcely bear to look myself in the eye.

But I do it, wink as I strop the straight razor, an heirloom from my mother’s side of the family.
WARRENTED and made in SHEFFIELD, ENGLAND, the box declares, Price $1.25 EACH.

Lathered up, I begin.

Pulling long smooth strokes, I rake away the beard and rinse it down the drain.
As the steam fogs the mirror, I take time to wipe it with a towel, revealing my half-shaven face.
I move around the face with the steel, carefully and luxuriously making myself smooth.
Checking with the other hand for stubble, I go over rough spots again, smoothing all.
Mouth twisting, nose lifting I remove every remnant of hair from the face.

My face, after all.

I stopper the sink and as it fills with hot water, contemplate the job I’ve done in the glass.
I turn my head from side to side, inspecting the skin for strays that eluded the razor’s path.
Scooped water from the sink rinses away the last of the lather and I towel off.

Finished. Except for one thing.

With the water still running I raise the blade and pull it down heavily across my left wrist.

It cuts to the bone.

-Prof. Dirk Beat