Shaving, and my Dad

You are...dry-shaving.

It surely didnt sound like A question, so I kept on working my hand on my chin. Yes, dry-shaving, if you said so. I'm not good at it.
"I'd hurt myself if I do that," he went on. I looked at him for a while, smiled, no comment to be made, I said to myself.

And it hurt, eventually. Standing under the weak stream of the cold shower, the scars left a lil bit pain as the water washed the shaved area. Ah, that's what I love from going to the barber shop, a nice shave treat after the haircut done.
Thankfully, I don't need to do it on a daily basis. Mine ain't that hairy, twice/three times a week, max.

Sometimes when I walk pass a glass-walled building, or a car parked on the roadside, I'd check myself, "I definitely dont look good growing the facial hair, yet, I dont look strikingly young[er] without it. But I play it safe, clean-shaven face will save the day.

Besides, Dad had never taught me how,
I remember he wet the soap and applied it onto his face before he take the razor and work it well. Never seen blood on it, though. Back then, with less admiration, I said to myself that I can't wait to grow up facial hair for a fun shaving time.

I also got my dad's hairy legs,
not his biceps and abs,
not his dark skin,
not his superb sense of humor and conversation skill,
not his corky dance skill, thank god.

I got my back a few pimples/acnes, thanks to him,
I got his dark brown narrow eyes,
I even got his non-picky, greedy passion for food.


We both agreed on one thing: We definitely look much handsome in person than in photographs.

I'm taller than him,
yet I failed to get the required height for international modeling job.

I used to think I got two nice hairy legs,
not until Green declared in one given afternoon at the mall, "Remember that Levi's shorts I bought in Singapore? I dont wear it often because, well, let's admit it, I dont have nice legs. You dont, too."

You look just like you dad! A remark I sometimes get from relatives or people who knew dad. In fact, I dont. Dad looked like, well, his younger brother in his village home.

And shame on me, I dont have no idea what's my blood type.
"Mom what's yours?" I asked once, or a few times, "AB," she said, less convincing.
"Dad?" I asked. "O," she replied. Uhm, I bet she lied, dad had no idea himself. Not even his factual date of birth.
And I have no guts of going to the hospital or a clinic to find out. That needle scare the hell out of me, seriously. I hate shot/injection, whatever you call it. When I was a kid, I hurt my head, successfully made a small fountain of blood. Dad ran me to the closest clinic from home.
No, i said. You have to, dad said. But I've had one shot here, I said, referring my wounded temple. That's different, he said. Do I have to? I begged him. Yes, the doc said, ready to give me a shot in the ass. No, i begged, cried. Thank god i was a kid back then. Yes, dad said. Come on, we need to go home soon, he continued. I'd give you a bowl of porridge if you'd be a good boy, the dog said. I went home with two swollen spots: in my temple and in my ass.

Then, dad died.
Meaning I had to return to Sibolga, attending the two-day Batak traditional ceremonies, forcing me to stand up for hours when someone came or made a long boring unnecessary speech/advice. I've had fever a week before, so yeah, I was weak, weakened with the sad news, and the long standing, and the handshakes, until i felt my heart hurt myself, I felt almost fainted, fell on my knees, decided to sit down for a while, crossed-legged. Then mom and a small group of mourning housewives took me to her room, "I'm OK, I'm just tired out," I said. And soon, I regretted for saying that. A woman whom I completely forgotten who, came and approached me, "I'm a nurse," she said. There, I'd had to face with the shot dilemma again. They have witnessed my not-so-cool butts, got a vitamin shot. Relax your muscles, she said. And I didnt, welcoming a new swollen ass.

Wait a minute, where this thing leads to? I dunno, maybe I just have nothing else to write.