itsradnomad

[itsradnomad]

Dysphoria

CW: blood, injury

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This morning, as I’ve done a thousand times before, I reach for my razor, ready to remove the rough imperfections of my face and leave behind the delicate surface of my true self. It’s a necessary ritual, one that was capable of altering the very fabric of my identity. On a good day the razor and I had an understanding, a symbiosis where I’d gently glide its blade across my cheek and neck, and it would reward me with a perfectly trimmed face. And though I had sculpted my appearance before, allowing growth to give way to lengthy sideburns and scraggly goatees, over the years we had settled on a look that showcased my bare face – smooth skin, untouched by the rough texture or the dark gnarls of masculinity.

Our relationship was always complicated, and often times frustrating. I spent my younger years trying to find the right recipe. One day, a buzzing device that left my face feeling hot, and after the heat subsided the roughness remained, as if the whole activity was rendered useless. The next day, the orange disposable handles my dad swore by: they tore at me, chiseling away my beard and along with it chunks of the marble, leaving a stinging sensation as their parting words. I continued to explore, from the replaceable heads to the double-edged blades – from the dollop of cream in my hand, to the scented bar and brush – taking note of what techniques worked and which ones didn’t. I could predict what I’d need for any situation: a safety razor for the workplace and local events, and a disposable one for when I traveled. Often we were out of sync; a poor grip, or an uneven path, was swiftly punished with pain. Sometimes, it left across my neck hundreds of micro-cuts, darkening my collar with a sinister rash. Other times it split my lip, leaving a week-long reminder not to smile, lest it humiliate me by breaking in times I should have been happy.

I grew uneasy in our meetings, so I gave us some space, allowing the stymied growth the occasional opportunity to propagate. I convinced myself this was a badge of honor, a symbol of dedication in all other facets of my life, when really it was a mark of surrender. In those moments I had given up on our relationship, forgoing the ideal of softness in hopes that the uncomfortable barbs that had begun to protrude could be comforting enough. This wouldn’t last, as I’d remember what I had lost, what we had lost, when I had put the razor down. We always fought when I came back, the blades desperately pulling at my beard as it was whittled away, but in time we found our groove. And once again, synchronicity prevailed, and I was left with a clean, smiling face. We had these battles over and over again, but I had truly believed that they were worth it – that in spite of our disagreements, we could learn to work together.

With ample shaving cream, I massage my face, both an activity of self-soothing and a signal for our dance to begin. My razor had already helped me many times over the past few weeks, and in my naivete, I had no reason to believe it wouldn’t partake in today’s sculpting. As I glide its blades across my face, I could feel the familiar tug, the desire to pull more than just hair from me, but with a steady hand I complete the first pass across my face: straight down from my sideburns, round my cheek, and along my neck, returning only to repeat the process on the next blade-length over. My mustache went next, much easier than the neck but with some remnants that would require more attention in subsequent rounds. With decisive movement and a twinge of haste, I had removed the most obvious patches of hair, and I could begin to feel the softness return once more.

The second pass is trickier; it can be done without the cream, but it requires a delicate, focused pull. It can be done against the grain, moving the razor up my neck back towards my sideburns, or it could be done perpendicularly, with the blades running from my ear to my chin. Often times, and today in particular, it was a combination of both methods, a brute-force attempt at a thorough trim. With every stroke of my razor I would place my fingers on the bare surface left behind, seeking validation for my efforts – after all, what could motivate me more than knowing the feeling of my ideal self?

“FUCK!”

With a jittery hand our dance abruptly stops, as I feel the blade plunge into my chin. “No, no, no…” I knew I had broken the skin, the sensation of hot blood rushing to greet the injury. I study the cut closely in the mirror, a perfectly straight line materializing a bold red color. I note the placement of this mark and, in my frustration, how close it is to the other mark – the one I had given myself a month ago with the same damn jittery hand.

I press on, determined to move past this unfortunate interruption and finish our activity together. My attention returns to my upper lip, still in need of a final pass. If I could just finish this, we could give ourselves another week-long break!

“Shit…” Another tug at my skin gives way to more pain, as the corner of my lip is now torn. It’s not enough to stop me from smiling, but it’s found a way to become a part of my smile – I don’t know which option is crueler. I put the razor down, our business concluded, and I see my neck is also a victim – the familiar lacerations decorating my neck like jagged cracks across freshly-shattered glass.

In the course of our relationship I had learned to never enter our meetings unarmed. I reach for my alum block, a quick treatment for my injuries that also doubled as a barometer for the extent of them. On our best days, the block slid across my face with ease, as if I were buffing the smooth marble my chiseling had exposed before I polished the stone with aloe-based lotion.

But today, with its brutal honesty, the alum block tells me exactly what I had feared. Searing pain takes over, with electricity that envelops my face in a disorienting surge. The hundreds of micro-cuts suddenly feel like millions, each one a screaming voice reminding me of my missteps. The blood continues to trickle out, taunting me as I desperately try to salvage what was left of my face. With a shaky but decisive pressure applied, the openings close, leaving behind the battle scars of our latest spat. I apply multiple rounds of lotion, a futile attempt to convince myself everything was under control.

My face, now hot from the trauma, could begin to heal – but would it? The mark I gave myself a month ago was still visible! Maybe my skin lost the flexibility it once had, or maybe I cut myself too deep, but I don’t remember them lasting this long. Besides, I’ll need to shave again in a week, if I want to keep the unwelcome coarseness at bay. Would I hurt myself then, too? Or the time after that? And for what, a face with the smoothness I craved, but at the cost of disfigurement? With every slice of my razor, I’m not just losing a piece of my beard – I lose a piece of myself, of my identity.

When I look in the mirror, I see a quandary – a face that so desires to be seen, in all its soft glory, while simultaneously despising its very nature. It latches on to the imperfections: the crookedness of my sideburns, the missed stubble around my lips, the red irritation coloring my neck, and the faded scars of battles fought long ago. How cruel the whims of the universe must be, to invite disgust and disillusionment into the home where love and acceptance should live. What would happen if I keep this relationship going? Would I chisel myself into something I no longer recognize? Would I eventually whittle away to nothing?

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I don’t know how this ends. But with a clear mind and newfound resolve, I now see us for what we truly are: a toxic entanglement that has long passed its expiration. Perhaps beyond its fickle edges, in the greater ecosystem of hair-removal, I can find the way forward – perhaps I can put down my razor for the last time, so I may treat the wounds I’ve accumulated over the years.

Perhaps I’ll live a long, memorable life, one full of love and appreciation for how I look, one where the razor can never hurt me again.