A father and a son decide to go to a barbershop to
A father and a son decide to go to a barbershop together for a shave.
The air in the barbershop was thick with the scent of bay rum and a faint, almost imperceptible, tinge of fear. Ten-year-old Michael, perched precariously on the edge of a plush red chair, felt his heart thump against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wasn’t afraid of the barber, a jovial man with twinkling eyes and a handlebar mustache that twitched with every word. No, Michael was terrified of the razor.
He’d watched his dad get shaved countless times, the smooth, wet glide of the blade across his face, the sudden sharp snips as stray hairs were trimmed. It looked like a scene from a horror film, and Michael was convinced the barber was wielding a weapon rather than a tool.
His father, Frank, sensed his son’s apprehension. He put a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder, the rough calluses a comforting presence against his son’s trembling skin. “It’s okay, son,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “You’re a man now, and men get their faces shaved.”
Michael wasn’t convinced. He was no man; he was a boy who still felt the sting of a skinned knee, the ache of a scraped elbow. But the weight of his father’s hand, the understanding in his eyes, somehow quelled the fear in his chest. He nodded, and the barber, a twinkle in his eye, began to lather his face with a thick, fragrant cream.
The razor felt cold against his skin, the sting of the initial cut a sharp, surprising sensation. He flinched, but his father squeezed his shoulder, the familiar pressure a silent reassurance. The barber continued, his movements practiced and smooth, his words a steady stream of calming chatter. He told stories about his days as a young barber, about the different shaves he’d given, about the customers he’d met.
Michael listened, the fear receding as the stories painted vivid pictures in his mind. He felt his father’s presence beside him, a steady beacon against the cold, sharp world of the barber’s tools. He felt a sense of pride, a quiet thrill that he was finally old enough, brave enough, to be shaved like a man.
When the shave was done, his face felt smooth and cool, a strange sensation that was both foreign and strangely comforting. He looked at himself in the mirror, his reflection a boy who looked a little more grown-up, a little more like his dad. He smiled, the fear replaced by a new sense of confidence, a feeling of belonging, of being part of something bigger than himself.
As they walked out of the barbershop, Michael felt a small, warm hand slide into his. It was his son, his eyes shining with a mix of wonder and apprehension. He looked at his son, the fear in his eyes mirroring his own from earlier that day. He smiled and squeezed his son’s hand, the familiar warmth of his calloused fingers offering silent reassurance.
“It’s okay, son,” he said, the words echoing his own father’s words, “You’re a man now, and men get their faces shaved.”
