"Mustache"

My fingers graze over the stubble on my face, each grain getting caught on the grooves of my fingertips. Too long to go unnoticed, too short to shave without cutting up my face.

"Go like that," she tells me, "I don't mind."

But I do.

I can feel the shaving butter sear the top layer of skin as I rub it onto my face. My bristles soften, but the space between them feels the brunt force of the cream's effects.

I wet the razor under a scalding stream of water– I know warm is better, but hot feels smoother to me. Besides, more open pores means shaving closer to the base.

I tilt my head back and feel my throat. My left fingers run along the small trace of an Adam's apple; one only visible when I throw my head back for a choke– or, well, a shave. My right fingers firmly hold the razor's handle, guiding it to the border between last night's muffler burn and my shrubs of facial hair.

I press down. Not too hard, not too light.

I drag the razor upward, shaving against the grain. Another habit I'm told is bad, but it hasn't killed me so far.

I go along carefully, making sure that every inch of stubble is tread upon and shed away. It goes from neck, to jaw, to cheek, to chin, to lip. And by the end, I'm running my hands across a beautifully smooth face. Not a speck of grain in sight.

We get in the car and I'm still feeling the fruits of my labor as we pull out of the driveway.

I glance in the mirror, and see that I've missed a spot.

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