My wife tells me that I have to teach the oldest one to shave.
"Nobody taught me to shave," I say. "I picked it up on the streets."
"This isn't about you," she says. I just shrug, because I think it is a little bit about me, but I know better than to say so. I avoid the subject for the next few days.
I'm not shying away from this particular rite of passage for complex emotional reasons. The truth is, I've never been very good at shaving. I cut myself a lot. Although largely self-taught, over the years I have actually had a few shaving lessons from hairdressers, for articles. I found the professional advice confusing, contradictory and heavily weighted in favour of certain proprietary products that happened to be sold in the establishment. To me, shaving is a question of luck: you try your best, and more often than not it doesn't work out. Just like life.
Also, I have a beard at the moment, the product of eight weeks of not shaving. I didn't grow it on purpose, exactly, but I'm still pleased with it. I have found the point where sloth meets affectation, and I like it there.
On Saturday my wife comes back from the supermarket with a new razor for the boy. "He's upstairs," she says, "waiting for you to teach him to shave."
"He's still asleep, actually."
"Well, wake him up."
"Will I have to shave off my beard to teach him, do you think?" I say.
"Yes!" the middle one shouts from the other room. I stroke my chin. I feel as if I've just finished writing a complex equation that covers the entire chalkboard, and now someone wants me to erase it in order to show them how to spell "CAT".
It is nearly midday when I get the oldest one out of bed and in front of the bathroom mirror. He is irritable, uninterested and semi-conscious. Perfect, I think: we're halfway there.
"First," I say, "we fill the sink. The water must be very hot."
"Why must the water be hot?" he asks.
"Good question," I say. "Questions will be taken at the end. Next, we splash our faces liberally, like so."
"Getting water all over the mirror," says my wife, who, it transpires, has installed herself in a chair behind us, her embroidery on her lap.
"Why is she here?" the boy asks.
"You think this is embarrassing?" she says. "Try being taught how to put a tampon in."
"That's unhelpful," I say.
"Please go away," the boy says.
"I'm just here for kicks," she says.
"Then we take our razor," I say, holding up my own razor, "and apply the blade side to the face, using a downward motion." I demonstrate with the razor hovering over my cheek. He watches, and imitates.
"How hard do you press?" he says.
"Not that hard," I say. "Let the weight of the razor sort of…" I demonstrate the optimum pressure. When I look back in the mirror, I notice I have shaved a rectangular chunk out of my beard.
"Uh-oh," I say. "Let me just…" I shave a corresponding slot on the other side, but it doesn't match. Before I know it, half my beard is gone. I have no option but to finish the job.
"What next?" the boy asks.
"Nothing," I say. "You're done. You can apply one of the many proprietary aftershave products I've been obliged to purchase over the years, but if I were you I'd just pat my face dry with a hand towel."
"And then fold and replace the towel on the rail," my wife says. "Or, like your father, you could just throw it on the floor."
"Your choice," I say, cutting the end of my chin.
