“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.