This morning, I woke up at 7:30. It wasn’t a yawn, stretch, admire my flowing golden locks in the mirror kind of morning, either. It was a groan, open one eye, consider burrowing back into bed kind of morning. Eventually, I found the courage to put my feet on the floor (mostly, mind you, because I look forward to my morning oatmeal like a seven-year-old looks forward to Christmas). Snatching the blanket from the foot of my bed, I fashioned a toga of sorts over my sweats, wrapping it across one shoulder and under one armpit. Without any Caesarian dignity, I descended the stairs and ambled into the kitchen.
Jordan was there, drinking coffee in his calm way. He’s a morning person. Apparently, the toga and under-eye circles spoke for me, because he quickly poured me a cup. Then he asked, with the kind of earnestness I cannot summon until at least noon, if I would shave his neck.
“Natalie cut my hair last night, but she didn’t have a razor, so my neck is a little scrappy.”
In the bathroom, he smeared his neck with shaving cream, and I proceeded to scrape at it with a dull razor, pulling over and over against the fine hairs that refused to budge. Eventually, it was clear that the cause was lost.
So off to school I went, thinking of Hemingway shaving in the pine-littered hills of Spain, frowning at his reflection in the bottom of a tin pot and pausing every so often (never mind the lather dripping from his chin or the pop of grenades in the background) to write down a thought or two.