Titled: Shaving To Be a Man

I had to write a 300-600 word, single sentence, short story for my class, Sentence Strategies.  I decided to write about the first time I shaved, and what it was like for me as a kid.  I didn't write this because I've been thinking about it a lot or anything, but simply because it stands in my memory very strongly.  It is something I draw strength from now, rather that weakness or shame, which I might have before, when I was much younger.

This is a rough draft, as I've not edited it, but I really want to share it.  So, here it is:

          As he stood before the mirror, the fat of his youth still clinging to his young body, naked for all the world to see, he strained on his tip toes, resting his waist on the sink's edge as he jutted his chin forward to examine the hairs emerging and, as his finger stroked each side individually, counted: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...10, 11; wondering how many hairs it takes to make a full beard, then he considered his elder brother's razor residing just ahead of where his hand was now placed -his father's razor was not there because his father was not there, nor had he been since he was thirteen, more than a year ago, but don't be fooled by the pleasant facade, this does affect him, and yet it makes him stronger, more resilient, more independent, more curious, more adventurous; it will make him into a man, it will define him- and he imagined himself shaving: the gentle strokes of the five-blade-razor as it glided over his face, cutting away at the thick hair and shaving cream, which he would have, obviously, lathered on to cover his man's beard that goes oh so well with his lumber-jack-red-flannel-button-up; without a razor, however, this would not happen, without a beard, without shaving cream, without the knowhow, but -alas!- he had all of these things, he suddenly realized, thus with a spin into the air, a flinging of the door, his naked body bounded down the twenty-four stairs, skipping the first three and the bottom four, using a hand on the railing at the exact spot to swing him around the corner into the living room, and then on to the dining room before he arrived at the so called back-room, where the computer resided, which he promptly used to learn, from YouTube, how to properly shave, and with the scouring of the internet, naked still -as only he and his mother really lived in the house, because, even though his brother lived there, he was rarely there during normal hours, and his mother was at work for another five hours, until five- he turned the shower on, hot water, closed his door, filled the mirror with shaving cream and then wiped it off, to keep it from fogging up in the heat (a trick he'd learned from YouTube), scrubbed his face with a warm, wet washcloth to open his pores and soften his hairs (again, a trick learned from YouTube), lathered on the blue foam until his face was more shaving cream than skin, let alone hairs, and proceeded to draw the electric, five-blade-razor down his cheek that still had some baby fat on it, and, stopping just at the first spot of hair he'd come to, contemplated on whether or not he wanted to shave these forty-six hairs, which he'd been patiently growing for the past month, now, with the excitement of the moment over, he reconsidered his quick decision making, but, with the shrug of his shoulders, he pressed on with his endeavor, only to realize, thirty minutes later, when he was done being very thorough, that shaving changed nothing about the way he looked, because the hairs were so light and so spaced out that they appeared to be lone wisps of hair, standing out from the bottom of his chin, neck, and side burns; he was still just a kid, still just fourteen, and still trying to grow up, but he wasn't quite sure how and he didn't want to ask anybody, because everyone always got sad, so he went back to his computer, clothed and somber this time, and googled, “How to grow up and be a good man”.