He and I went shopping for an electric shaver. There's no way I'm letting this kid get his hands on razor blades.
I know absolutely nothing about electric shavers for men, though I do have some facial hair from time to time.
Thanks a lot, menopause.
I stood by the bathroom door and I watched him shave.
He needs work on his technique - apparently, moving the shaver in small circles gets the best results (according to the owner's manual).
(Begin mind trip)
While watching him shave, I began thinking about another bathroom door frame. When I was a girl, I used to lean against the bathroom door frame and watch my dad shave with his electric shaver. I'd tell him important Kim stuff, and watch his face in the mirror. We'd talk about everyday things, or about particular problems I was having with my mother.
When he was done shaving, I'd watch him clean the blades with a little brush (he did this over the toilet - hairs cascading down into the water). Then he'd wash out the bathroom sink, and we'd go into the dining room for a breakfast of toast (both of us), and tea (me) or coffee (him).
(End mind trip)
The Boy cleaned the blades over the bathroom trash can, and put his shaver away.
I'm running out of right of passage events with my children.
To recap, my two daughters are married, one has children. Soon, The Boy will be The Adult, and he'll move out (cross your fingers).
Then my day-to-day parenting activities will cease and I'll move into the empty nest phase of life.
What the hell will I do with all that time on my hands?
I must remember to tell The Mister that this was a rhetorical question...lest he make me a to-do list.
Before we bought the shaver, The Boy was looking downright scruffy - and not in that Hugh Jackman manly five o'clock shadow kind of way. He looked like he had covered part of his face in Karo syrup and then rolled around on the floor of a hair salon catering to blondes, resulting in blondish hairs sticking out from above his upper lip to the place where he'll one day grow a double chin...a chin just like his mother.
He went from Shaggy (of Scooby Doo fame) to clean cut (like Justin Bieber's baby face).
The Boy's response? "Thanks for thinking that I looked like a stoner."
I guess he's not really The Boy anymore...I suppose I need to change his name on my blog, even though he'll always be MY boy.
Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm awfully glad that he doesn't participate in organized sports, so I can avoid the awkwardness of athletic cup and/or jockstrap shopping.
Mmm, I think it's time for a Scooby Snack.