SPEAKING OF VALUES - The foibles of facial follicalization

Last night my 16-year-old son, Jon, came downstairs to say good-night. When he gave me a hug, I smelled something I had never smelled before - at least, not on him. And I’ve got to tell you, it made my blood run cold as I flashed back to my own history and considered the possible traumatic implications for my son. “What’s that smell?” I asked as I held him close. “You know what it is,” he said, squirming to get away. “I think I know,” I said. “But I want you to tell me.” He laughed as he pulled away from me. He’s doing that a lot these days: laughing at me as I try to control him physically the way I used to. He’s almost as tall as I am now, and - don’t tell him this, OK? - probably stronger. I still have weight on my side - and my front and back, too, come to think of it - so I can probably still handle him. But it isn’t easy, and he knows that. “It’s after-shave,” he said, trying to cover his blushing with a last little shove. “No way!” I exclaimed. “And why did you put on after-shave? Is ‘Hannah Montana’ on or something?” “No,” he said. “And I don’t put on after-shave to watch ‘Hannah Montana.’” Good thing. He had put on enough of the stuff that it probably would have made poor little Hannah’s eyes water - even all the way out there in California. “So ... that means ... you shaved?” Now he was really blushing, so of course he had to jump on me. Long arms and legs flailed in the living room as we performed the curious male “I’m embarrassed so I’m going to physically attack you” ritual. Eventually we collapsed, as much from the stingingly pungent aroma in the air as from the exertion of father-son bonding. “So how long have you been shaving?” I asked. “Oh, since our choir tour in April,” he said. “You’ve been shaving for two months and I didn’t know it?” I asked. “Well, actually, this is the first time since then,” he admitted. I understood. I don’t think I actually shaved until I was a high school senior. The joke among my friends was that I shaved every two months whether I needed it or not. Mostly not. This was the early 70s, the era of long, bushy sideburns and Fu Manchu moustaches. I had friends who could grow full beards, for Pete’s sake, and I was still carefully and meticulously combing my hair down onto my face in a pathetic attempt to make it look like sideburns. Which, by the way, it didn’t. Still, I tried. I did the teenage version of the comb-over and I splashed on Hai Karate and I even nicked my face intentionally a couple of times just so I could say, “Oh man, I cut myself shaving this morning” - just like the beardy guys. Yeah, I know - it seems sort of silly today, when I’d gladly trade my ability to grow sideburns for the secret formula for NOT growing hair on my ears, in my nose and on my back. But I remember what a big deal it was to me then, when it felt like I was being judged for something over which I had absolutely no control. And I assumed Jon was feeling a little of that same pubescent helplessness. So I asked him: “Do you want me to show you how to shave?” “Nah,” he said. “My friend Cody showed me. He’s been shaving since 5 grade.” “And you’re OK with that?” I asked. “I mean, the fact that he shaves a lot and you ... you know ... don’t?” “Oh sure,” Jon said casually, without a trace of trauma or adolescent angst. “The way I see it, he shaves every day so he can have a nice, smooth face - like mine!” And just like that my concern melted away. Jon obviously has a better handle on the foibles of facial folliclization than I had 37 years ago. Indeed, that seems to be generally true of him and the rest of his generation. Not only are they light years ahead of us technologically - no shock there - but they also seem to innately understand stuff about life that we didn’t understand. There are probably a lot of reasons for that - some of them not altogether pleasant. But it fills my heart with hope to think that as a species we’re actually learning something from one generation to the next. No matter how the next generation occasionally smells.