A Boy’s Tragedy [deconstruction of]

The mirror, the razor, the sweet smelling cream, his dad’s instructions, and he was ready to go. He turns the tap on — not to cold, not to hot. Those were the specific words of his dad.

He felt the fuzz on his face with his fingers; it was soft, like the hair of a peach, or a caterpillar. Putting the shaving cream on, just like how dad showed him, made the boy look like he had an actual beard, not just fuzz.

The razor hovered above the skin as second thoughts interrupted what would become a weekly ritual. that phrase he read — girls like guys with smooth faces — echoed.

He moved the razor from the cheek down to his jawline, then down his neck, and he felt the hair pulled. This was the ritual of manhood, and it was easy, it was slick like tying his shoes. He could do this with eyes closed.

He moved the razor down his chin, then above his lips. He ran his fingers along his skin — not smooth enough, the task wasn’t finished. So he repeated the ritual, this time pressing the razor against his skin.

He was going to boast to his friends: I shave once a week now. There faces haven’t had the pleasure and

———————

Above was something I was working on, misty because I had this final line in my head: “His dad didn’t prepare him for this.” I feel like I mucked up this flash fiction though. The words don’t match the voice of a boy, yeah, that’s it.

Another issue I had writing this piece is I couldn’t build much tension with the razor. What I should have done is had the boy nick his face once or twice at the beginning, and then take his time to finish while fearing he would cut himself again. This isn’t supposed to be bloody or violent, I just was I inspired by the fact I still can’t shave my face without drawing blood.

Man, taking the time to explore your own work allows you to find the flaws!