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Nick in Time





My mother didn’t teach me to shave; she actively tried to stop me. She argued that I was too young, unconvinced by my pleas that all the other girls were doing it; unconvinced by the 34 Double C bras she had to order from the Sears catalogue. I didn't want boobs at aged 10. I didn't know what to do with them. I didn't want hairy legs at age 13, either.  I had a mind of my own and my body, alas, did too, regardless of Mom's "too young" argument. 

By grade eight, all the other girls – or at least one of them – suggested I see to my legs and underarms before we donned bathing suits for the upcoming co-ed class swimming lesson, which was a big deal. We were to be bussed from our small rural school to a sports complex in Kitchener, big deal.  I would see Robert Woods in his bathing suit and he in mine, big deal!

Without telling Mom, I simply borrowed the gummy turquoise Lady Shick that she kept in a bathroom drawer alongside a congealing jar of Noxema and a disintegrating compact of foundation powder, and got to work hovered over the bathtub.

It wasn’t my red welted, half hairless legs that tipped her off to what I’d done. It was the pool of blood circling the drain and the overwhelming stench of my dad’s shaving cream that followed me through the house to accompany the trail of red spotted tissues. And, I hadn’t just nicked myself, I’d sliced a two-inch gash above my ankle that is still visible to this day. Mom threw up her hands in dismay and sighed, the mother of all sighs, not having realized that, by 1973, those sighs had become entirely inconsequential.

Not so my attempt at shaving. Sadly, the open wound prevented me from taking part in the swimming lesson. I watched Robert Woods from the bleachers, fully clothed, disappointed and emanating a faint woodsy scent. 


 


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