Sundries

sundries

India ink, Dr. Martin's watercolors and white pencil.

My mother bought me my first razor when I was 14. She hated my chocolate-smudge mustache and insisted I wipe it off my face. The bribe: an electric razor, a Norelco triple-header, the state-of-the-art 0f the early 1970s, ideal for sculpting one’s Burt Reynoldsian fu-manchu and two inch sideburns. I returned from the bathroom after its maiden voyage. Mum balked, “Why didn’t you shave?” I protested, I had triple-headed off all the peach fuzz on my downy cheeks. “What about your lip?,” she snapped. “What? I have to lose my ‘stache?” She pointed an angry finger back toward the bathroom. I’ve never had a mustache since.
My boy shaves once or twice a week. He’s completely unattached to his own facial hair and loves to scrape it off. He’s an odd boy with his regular short haircuts. No piercings, tatts, fohawks for him. I don’t think he’s square, just self-sufficient.