Goodbye Li'l Stache

A few of weeks ago I endured one of those proud/heart-wrenching moments that make parenthood such a wondrous yet devastating enterprise.

I taught my son to shave.

Quite a few months ago I noticed a burgeoning patch of ‘hair’ on his upper lip. As the weeks passed the ‘hair’ grew darker. Finally a couple of months ago he had a full-fledged redneck mustache. You know the type: lots of fine, yet darkened, hairs growing toward the mouth. If you watched the NCAA basketball tournament you know what I’m talking about because of this guy from Butler University’s basketball team. Upon learning of the existence of said facial hair, he promptly named it. Thus, Li'l ‘Stache was born.

After a week or so of putting off the inevitable, I gave him some “shaving ointment” (as he calls it) and a razor, and we headed to the bathroom to remove Li'l ‘Stache.

Shaving is one of those rites of passage in every boy’s life. It is a sign of growing older. A sign that your body is maturing, even if you brain is still years away from the same.

At some point in life every boy must learn to shave. I don’t recall my dad teaching me. I remember my foray into the world of shavers as a solo endeavor. My older brother (15 months older) began shaving before I did. Since the two of us shared a bathroom, shaving implements were in ready supply. One night, despite the lack of any visual evidence of facial hair, I decided it was time to start shaving. And I did.

I couldn’t wait to start. Since then I’ve had a love/hate relationship with the practice. More hate than love, really. I shave 3 times a week, at the most. Partially because I’m lazy. Partially because I procrastinate (I get up at the last moment and don’t have time for shaving.) Mostly, though, I just see it as pointless. I’m scraping my face with a sharp blade to remove hair that begins to grow back immediately upon removal. It’s a losing battle. Add to that the fact that I have a scarce, incomplete beard. What’s the point?

And this is the life to which I have introduced my eldest child. Welcome, son, to the redundant, monotonous life of a shaver.