I was taught how to shave in a caravan in Devon.
My parents were getting ready to go out
and play Scrabble with their best friends

but Dad took 10 minutes to explain the importance
of dabbing hot water on my teenage neck
and barely ready cheeks, chin, and top lip –

before applying shaving foam – to prevent dirt
and dead cells clogging up his expensive blade.
“Go in the direction the hair grows,” he said

and I imagined the girls back home
being impressed with the way I followed instruction.
I sloshed the finished razor in the mini sink

the way Grandad would have done in the RAF
or Uncle Jim in the middle of the Gulf War.
In the night, I felt uncut fluff on my bottom lip,

reached for the razor and hacked in the dark.
“Girls like scars,” Dad said, passing tissues
for the blood gathering on my smile.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1’ by Neutral Milk Hotel.