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On Shaving
Jul. 20th, 2023 04:51 pm[I want to preface this by saying that this is about my personal experience of shaving and of masculinity. Facial hair on women, cis and trans alike, is not inherently unfeminine. Lack of facial hair is not inherently unmasculine. Nothing I say here should be taken as a critique of how bodies of any gender ought to be. This is about how I experience my own gender identity, as well as the expectations put on my body by the society I live in.
CW for discussions of dysphoria, body policing, mentions of menstruation and related health conditions, and the threat of transphobic violence.]
I used to watch my father shave sometimes. The bathroom would be steamy, smelling of pine and Irish Spring and whatever other scents go into cheap men's grooming products. I would watch as each strip of smooth skin would be revealed and each stubble-flecked mound of shaving cream rinsed away. The slow rasp of the razor seemed so loud. My father would be left with little wisps of shaving cream in the curve of the tragus. Maybe a tiny scrap of tissue plastered to a knick, just there on the jut of his jaw, one bright spot of blood with a ragged white halo.
This was probably the closest anyone has ever come to teaching me how to be a man. It was never intended to be a lesson--certainly not one intended for me. It wasn't even about spending time with me. We just lived in a single-wide with only one bathroom for a family of three. If we were all going somewhere together, somewhere nice enough to warrant a freshly-shaved face for my father, getting ready was going to involve some shared space.
( Read more... )
CW for discussions of dysphoria, body policing, mentions of menstruation and related health conditions, and the threat of transphobic violence.]
I used to watch my father shave sometimes. The bathroom would be steamy, smelling of pine and Irish Spring and whatever other scents go into cheap men's grooming products. I would watch as each strip of smooth skin would be revealed and each stubble-flecked mound of shaving cream rinsed away. The slow rasp of the razor seemed so loud. My father would be left with little wisps of shaving cream in the curve of the tragus. Maybe a tiny scrap of tissue plastered to a knick, just there on the jut of his jaw, one bright spot of blood with a ragged white halo.
This was probably the closest anyone has ever come to teaching me how to be a man. It was never intended to be a lesson--certainly not one intended for me. It wasn't even about spending time with me. We just lived in a single-wide with only one bathroom for a family of three. If we were all going somewhere together, somewhere nice enough to warrant a freshly-shaved face for my father, getting ready was going to involve some shared space.
( Read more... )
