Shaving

"You know you're lucky,
I never had a father to teach me these sort of things."

We're in the bathroom, my parents bathroom,
when I was younger I would always go back there. Now I was
older, and it was a new place to me, a new environment, it awed me.
It had green walls, a white sink, and was always clean, always clean.
I am 14, my father is teaching me to shave. We don't use shaving cream,
I am not old enough to use it, there isn't that much hair,
its preemptive really.
I remember at duck hunting my Dad "I don't want to start him on that,
because shaving is a pain in the ass."
I lather the soap and spread it on my face.
It's yellow and old, it smells sweet.
My dad leans over me,
he has glasses, but he is up close, he looks over their metal round edge.
I don't want to move, the blade could be small or huge, I don't know.
I can't see it, that panics me.
The blade is cold and quick. He breathes. I almost move.
We shave the left side of my face.
He lets me do the right.
He leaves while I work on it, it's easier then I thought.
Much easier.
Afterwords I go find him to look. To see if my sideburns are even,
or if I missed a spot.
My fathers sitting down he stands up and looks at me, up and down,
even though my face should only be the focus.
He sends me back to get them even.
I can't argue with him, or his standards.

To this day the same inspections occur,
and he still tells me the same thing,
and I still can't argue.