In a Kitchen of Pipe's

I am sitting in Pipes’ kitchen and pondering several things at once, which usually happens in Pipes kitchen, as there are several life altering conversations being held. Among them; what the hell is wrong with Pat Houston? Is that gay dude really “delirvert” and how in the world is Pipes going to start a fortune 500 company and raise her kids.  I am involved in these topics but I am also obsessing about my son’s facial hair. I think he needs to start shaving and I have no clue how to begin this instruction. Of course I have Googled this question but Google only tells you how to shave, not WHEN to shave.  How does one determine if their son should start shaving? I know his mustache is weird looking and it reminds me of the stoners in high school that could never quite grow a “stache”, as it were. The hair on my sons upper lip is definitely dark enough to been seen, corse enough to feel against my face and awkward enough to belong to a fifteen year old boy.

Yep, I have made a decision. Pat Houston is a macadamia and my son needs to start shaving. Dear God in heaven, I have a child that needs to shave and I have no man around to teach him. I have a boyfriend but I am no where near asking him to come over and meet my son, let alone teach him how to place a razor against his face and drag it around.

I begin to pray to God, well, less of a prayer and more of a barter agreement.

“God, if you help me I will…I don’t know what I’ll do but we’ll work something out”.  Just as I finish asking the supreme being for a favor, Pipes’ hubby walks into the kitchen. Bingo! I have always had a hard time filtering my words, but since widowhood was thrust upon me it seems the filter was removed entirely. Ski walks into the kitchen fresh from his workout and I jump off of my barstool and lunge toward him. I try and calm myself and relax even though it feels like teaching my son to shave could be the most important lesson I ever teach anyone ever. I compose my self and casually walk over to Ski and blurt out, “Ithinkmysonneedstoshavewillyouteachmehowtoteachhim? Ski, being the cool cat he is, says sure. I am relieved someone will guide me through this maze of teenage facial hair. Right then it hits me, not only do I not have an inside voice I don’t have an inside thought. I then blurt out  to Ski “and you’re blaaack.”

Ski looks at me once again being cool as fuck and nods his head in agreement. I only confirm Ski’s race because black men, or I guess men with curly hair, have specific issues with ingrown hairs and chin bumps etc. With a deep sigh, I sit at the metaphorical knee of Ski as he instructs me on beginning shaving. We discuss razors and types for a beginner to use, I am so grateful I almost forget to take mental notes. I forgo the actual paper and pen notes afraid that I will show Pipes and Ski just how uncool I am. I now have knowledge and that is power according to The United Negro College Fund, wait their slogan is a mind is a something, something, whatever. The problem with my son is that he is just like my late husband (ugh, I still hate that term “late”) incredibly private and unwilling to ask for help. We return home, leaving the comfort of Ski’s kitchen and I peruse Target looking for an electric razor that isn’t more than twenty dollars and doesn’t resemble a medieval torture device.

As I stare blankly at the men’s razors, noticing that there are much cheaper than women’s, my son calls and tells me he would like to shave his face.  Holy hell! I calmly tell him I might be able to pick something up but I also tell him not to count on it, I find keeping the mystery in parenting is essential. I arrive home from Target with my purchase in hand so excited that I can do something about this weird hair on my son’s face. I dump out the bag and to my son’s surprise, there is an electric razor with every attachment a fellow could ever desire. My son and I look at each other then look into the bathroom mirror and jump into this unknown voyage of hair removal. Not to be outdone, my daughter peeks her head into the bathroom and announces that she has been shaving her legs since fifth grade and if Duke can’t figure out this shaving thing than he’s “too stupid to live”. As much as I want to admonish my girl for the insult, I am emotionally unable to do so at that moment, too concerned with my son’s first man milestone without his fucking father. But much to my surprise my son looks at me and says “she’s not wrong” at this point I realize that my kids will be fine and eventually so will I.

I excuse myself from my son’s bathroom and head upstairs to my bed. the sanctuary that is my bedroom helps me put my life into perspective plus I need to cry my eyes out and I do not want my kids to see me. As happy as I am that I accomplished this shaving shit, I am also so very sad that Peter was not around to teach him. I not only mourn for what was but I also mourn for what will never be. Treacherous territory mourning for something you know you will never have. Fuck! So now I not only mourn for Peter, I mourn for the shit Peter will never be able to do with his children. Well I give up!

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