"A Close Shave" by Charles Rammelkamp

“People who shave grow a day younger every morning.” -- Vladimir Nabokov, Mary

“You’re not supposed to shave in the steamroom.”

All lathered up,

feeling my whiskers relax

like moviegoers slumping in their seats,

clutching my razor,

I open my eyes to the muscular young man

hovering over me where I sit on the bench

in the clouds of steam,

a towel swaddled about his waist,

reminding me of the street-crossing guards

in elementary school,

their bright orange vests

their air of faux authority.

“No problem,” I lie,

casual as a kid playing hooky,

but feeling like the busted jaywalker,

hurtled back in time half a century.

“I’m just softening my whiskers.

I’ll shave out at the washbasins.”

“OK, sorry,” the kid apologizes,

“It’s just that it’s against the rules.

Health Department.”

As he turns away,

I check the impulse to trip him,

like a sixth-grade bad boy

on the edge of puberty,

anticipating the day

he’ll be able to shave like a man.