myself.”
In the distance a siren wails. My left arm quivers. I hide it under my back. Ambulances stalk the city, picking up and dropping off. Now another siren joins in, syncopated whoops and chirps, fighting selfish traffic, fighting time.
“Come on,” she says, “let’s shave it off.” She pulls me up by my hands. Our faces are close. Her dark scent. From behind, with her hands on my hips, she steers me to the bathroom.
I stand facing the mirror and she moves left and right in the cramped space, searching for the perfect angle. First, with my orange-handled scissors, she snips away the farthest reaches of my beard. Squiggles float to the floor. “Take off your shirt,” she says, but she doesn’t wait for me, she pulls it up herself. I reach for the sky.
In the mirror my chest is pale under the bare incandescent light. Not much hair. I used to have more muscle. They have gone a little slack. The contours are subtle now, just enough to remind me what I was. What I could be.
“Have you done this before?” I ask.
“I’ll figure it out.”
She snips. I suck some squiggles up my nose. It tickles. I sneeze. “Hold still,” she says with a smile. “Lean forward,” she says, “I’m not that tall.” To maintain the position I must brace myself against the sink. “More,” she says. The squiggles fall softly, like snow. The scissors open and close with a metallic bite. “You’re beginning to take shape,” she says. The soft underside of her arm brushes my shoulder, barely a whisper, but my entire body feels it. I get goose bumps. She goes on cutting.
When she is finished trimming she holds a hot, wet towel against my face. Through the towel she massages my cheeks and jaw and forehead. Drops of warm water slide down my chest and disappear into my pants. “Don’t you already feel fresher?” she asks.
She pats my cheeks with shaving cream. “It’s not foam,” I say. “You don’t need quite so much.”
“It’s the good stuff.”
“The good stuff? Where do you learn those expressions?”
“I pick them up. I’m always paying some attention.” She finishes applying the cream. “Now it’s like you have a whole new beard. A snow beard. Maybe this is how you’ll look when you’re old. Like Santa. Did your father have white hair?”
“My father died before he could go gray.”
She tells me I need to hold still. “I don’t want to cut your juggler.”
“Jugular.”
“Just hold still. Did I put on too much cream?”
“Way too much.”
“Hold still.” She finds the proper angle. She presses the razor to my cheek, up high by the bone. She pulls it down to my jaw. A vertical tract of clear skin surrounded by white. Too much cream. She rinses the blade in the running water. Some of the hairs stick to the porcelain, others plunge down the drain. Blobs of cream stick. Slowly they erode, lose their grip, and slide down the porcelain into the hole.
Again she sets the razor and pulls. “This is fun,” she says. “Are you nervous?”
“Cheeks are the easy part.” She sets, she pulls, deliberate and precise. Between my legs it begins to stir. I need a different thought to suppress it. In middle school I’d think about dead cats, piles and piles of dead cats. Worked every time. “Your brother died because he wouldn’t accept Japanese blood?”
She rinses the blade and for a few seconds stares into the sink. “No, he died because they forced it into him.”
“It was tainted?”
She lines up the next swipe at my face. Her black eyes are complete concentration. I feel as though I am a lump of clay being carved into a sculpture. “Tainted?” she says. “He would’ve said so. But not like a disease like AIDS. Tainted because it was Japanese. See, my mom isn’t Japanese, she’s Korean.” She flips the razor upside down and starts on my neck. “The thing about Japan is that . . . how do I say it? If an American says he’s American, he’s talking about the country. About the
In the distance a siren wails. My left arm quivers. I hide it under my back. Ambulances stalk the city, picking up and dropping off. Now another siren joins in, syncopated whoops and chirps, fighting selfish traffic, fighting time.
“Come on,” she says, “let’s shave it off.” She pulls me up by my hands. Our faces are close. Her dark scent. From behind, with her hands on my hips, she steers me to the bathroom.
I stand facing the mirror and she moves left and right in the cramped space, searching for the perfect angle. First, with my orange-handled scissors, she snips away the farthest reaches of my beard. Squiggles float to the floor. “Take off your shirt,” she says, but she doesn’t wait for me, she pulls it up herself. I reach for the sky.
In the mirror my chest is pale under the bare incandescent light. Not much hair. I used to have more muscle. They have gone a little slack. The contours are subtle now, just enough to remind me what I was. What I could be.
“Have you done this before?” I ask.
“I’ll figure it out.”
She snips. I suck some squiggles up my nose. It tickles. I sneeze. “Hold still,” she says with a smile. “Lean forward,” she says, “I’m not that tall.” To maintain the position I must brace myself against the sink. “More,” she says. The squiggles fall softly, like snow. The scissors open and close with a metallic bite. “You’re beginning to take shape,” she says. The soft underside of her arm brushes my shoulder, barely a whisper, but my entire body feels it. I get goose bumps. She goes on cutting.
When she is finished trimming she holds a hot, wet towel against my face. Through the towel she massages my cheeks and jaw and forehead. Drops of warm water slide down my chest and disappear into my pants. “Don’t you already feel fresher?” she asks.
She pats my cheeks with shaving cream. “It’s not foam,” I say. “You don’t need quite so much.”
“It’s the good stuff.”
“The good stuff? Where do you learn those expressions?”
“I pick them up. I’m always paying some attention.” She finishes applying the cream. “Now it’s like you have a whole new beard. A snow beard. Maybe this is how you’ll look when you’re old. Like Santa. Did your father have white hair?”
“My father died before he could go gray.”
She tells me I need to hold still. “I don’t want to cut your juggler.”
“Jugular.”
“Just hold still. Did I put on too much cream?”
“Way too much.”
“Hold still.” She finds the proper angle. She presses the razor to my cheek, up high by the bone. She pulls it down to my jaw. A vertical tract of clear skin surrounded by white. Too much cream. She rinses the blade in the running water. Some of the hairs stick to the porcelain, others plunge down the drain. Blobs of cream stick. Slowly they erode, lose their grip, and slide down the porcelain into the hole.
Again she sets the razor and pulls. “This is fun,” she says. “Are you nervous?”
“Cheeks are the easy part.” She sets, she pulls, deliberate and precise. Between my legs it begins to stir. I need a different thought to suppress it. In middle school I’d think about dead cats, piles and piles of dead cats. Worked every time. “Your brother died because he wouldn’t accept Japanese blood?”
She rinses the blade and for a few seconds stares into the sink. “No, he died because they forced it into him.”
“It was tainted?”
She lines up the next swipe at my face. Her black eyes are complete concentration. I feel as though I am a lump of clay being carved into a sculpture. “Tainted?” she says. “He would’ve said so. But not like a disease like AIDS. Tainted because it was Japanese. See, my mom isn’t Japanese, she’s Korean.” She flips the razor upside down and starts on my neck. “The thing about Japan is that . . . how do I say it? If an American says he’s American, he’s talking about the country. About the
Similar Books
