My Clash With My Stache


My Clash With My Stache

Illustration: Akshita Monga


ne of the most vivid memories of my childhood is that of my brother and I surreptitiously peering at our dad, as he meticulously sheared off his beard. For reasons unknown, we thoroughly enjoyed this activity, and somehow managed to fit our tiny three-feet-something selves behind the panel of the bathroom door, absolutely convinced he was unaware of our presence. My head on top of my brother’s, we gaped at him and simultaneously let our minds wander off to the day we would be able to perform the same activity in front of the mirror.

Shaving seemed profoundly adult to us back then – a rite of passage, which would truly announce our arrival into adulthood. We were in awe of dad’s shiny Gillette razor, which fit so perfectly in his hands, how he undertook the task daily with such intense concentration. We even mimicked his actions and eventually let ourselves drift into this reverie, until we were interrupted by the swoosh of the shaving brush, as he playfully mushed our faces with white foam.