Shaving My Father’s Arm

My father had uncharacteristically hairy arms for an Irishman. His brothers use to tease him about it, saying he’d been fathered by the old Greek from the laundry. They all had hairy arms, but he was the youngest, and the last to conquer logic.

After he turned 60, my father visited a new skin doctor (his last one had moved to Orlando), who found a few melanomas that she wanted to remove. Nothing to worry about–since they’d found them early–but they had to come off and it would require a minor surgery.

We met at the cafe for our Monday mocha shakes. He never paid once, insisting that I pay him back for all those years of check-ups and overpriced cereals one mocha shake at a time.

“We have to shave my arm,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Melanoma. I’ve got to have surgery next week.”

“Is it serious,” I asked, pushing away my cup.

“Not yet.”

A young woman walked in and for the first time since I could remember, he didn’t pay her any attention.

“Don’t they shave your arm for you?” I asked.

“I’m sure they do, but I’d rather walk in with it ready to go.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“They’re probably going to shave it again.”

“Not if we do it right,” he said, reaching for my untouched shake. “You don’t want your mocha shake?”

“I’ll take it with me.”

“The whip cream will melt.”

“I’ll put it in the freezer.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You can’t shave your arm yourself?”

“It’s my right arm. I can’t shave with my left.”

“What about mom? Women can shave.”

“I want you to do it.”

When he finished his shake and most of mine, I bought a third one for the road at his suggestion.

The night before the surgery I went over to his house and he met me at the door with an old-time barber’s brush. “Badger hair,” he said. “Supposed to be the best.”

“How do you know that’s actually badger hair and not, say, horse hair or cow hair?”

“It’s badger hair alright. It cost $35.”

“Did you have to buy the badger too?”

“Ha ha,” he said. “I’ll get the foam ready.”

He swirled the brush on the small cake of soap as if he’d done it a couple of times, like he’d practiced a few times before I came over. The badger hair made a thick lather of the soap and he dabbed it thick on his arm.

“Goodbye my friends,” he said.

“Hair grows back. Probably faster than you think.” I put the razor near his shoulder and drew it down toward his elbow. “Give it four days and your arm’s going to itch like hell.”

“Pay attention. You’ll hack a vein.”

“Veins? I can’t even see the skin there’s so much hair. Did you get another razor?”

“Cosco pack.”

I continued to shave and with each pull his arm became somehow leaner, shiny and pale, like the arm of some kid who never played outside. To my surprise, his eyes were on me the whole time–even when I looked at him. He didn’t look away like some patient getting a shot. He watched me, not the razor, not the arm. Me. I don’t remember another time my father looked at me with such emotion.

“What?” I asked.

“What?” he said.

“You’re looking at me like I’m someone you used to date.”

“Get out,” he said, and looked away. But as I finished the arm, he continued his staring. When I’d shaved the entire thing, I wiped down the streaks of lather with a towel. He sat there, the right arm of his undershirt rolled up above his naked appendage.