there's something about that shave

Ever since I was a little girl, I loved to watch my dad shave.  There was something about the systematic nature of the task that kept my attention.  It was routine.  Predictable.  The same every time.  I even watched him on the same day: Saturday.  Sometimes we talked while he shaved, and sometimes I just watched. 

Apparently I studied his technique, because I can remember the order of things like it was yesterday.  Saturday mornings, my dad would suddenly disappear from the kitchen where my step-mom was preparing breakfast. I would faintly hear the water running from the other end of the house.  And as if it was calling my name, I moseyed in to the bathroom to watch my dad shave. 

By the time I made it to the bathroom, my dad had already taken his place by the sink and gathered all the participants of this daily venture.  The shaving cream.  The wash cloth.  the towel.  The razor.  They were all there by his side, patiently waiting their turn in the process. He stood there gazing mindlessly into the mirror, waiting for the water to get hot. Hot enough that the steam danced slowly towards his face. Only then did he pull the stopper.

Once the sink was full enough, he turned off the water and placed the can of shaving cream into the basin. I watched it bob up and down, trying to endure the shock of the heat. I was never quite sure why he did that. Maybe the hot water created a smoother consistency for the cream. Or maybe it was to warm it enough so that the cream's coldness didn't cause his whiskers to retreat.  Whatever the reason, it was a step that he never skipped.  

Next my dad took the wash cloth and slowly dipped it into the sink.  When he pulled it out, the wash cloth dropped endless streams of tears into the basin.  Almost as if comforting it, my dad gave it a squeeze, and the tears stopped.  He took a deep breath, and applied the hot cloth to his face...opening his pores...drawing out his whiskers.

Finally, he rescued the poor shaving cream from it's hot spot in the sink.  I'll never forget what that can looked like.  It was red and white stripped, and looked as if it came directly from the barber shop. He shook that can in a mighty way, stopping only when the cream was ready to apply.

When he pushed the button on top of the can, the shaving cream came out forcefully, as if it had been waiting for years to escape its aluminum jail.  It seemed anxious and relieved, all in one squirt. 

My dad filled his palm with the cream, joined it with the other palm, and then in the most gentle and intentional way, applied it.  The way his hands painted the cream on his face was so artistic, like he was painting a monochromatic masterpiece.  And eventually, when the human canvas looked just the way he wanted it, his hands stopped.  Then he rid them of the extra cream in the water, and dried them off with the towel.  

At last, it was the razor's turn.  My dad picked it up, cocked his head, and looked into the mirror, ready to begin.   He used his hands and made different faces, almost professional-like, to tighten his skin in just the right way to prevent nicks and produce perfectly smooth skin. Between each swipe, my dad gave the razor a bath in the sink, unclogging its blades and freeing it of the dirty cream and whisker trimmings. Stroke by stroke, the cream came off, and my dad's clean shaven face slowly appeared.  Aaaahhh!

I don't know why there was something about that shave, but I'm glad I was drawn to watch. Maybe it's because God created me with a linear and logical nature, and it thrills me to watch a step-by-step project from start to finish.  Or maybe it it was simply because it was just the two of us, and nothing needed to be said for our hearts to connect.