When I was about fourteen or fifteen, I decided it was finally time to shave. My face only had a little peach fuzz, but I’d watched my dad for years and figured I knew what to do. I opened the medicine cabinet, found his old safety razor, the kind you twisted at the bottom so the top would open like a pair of wings, and set myself up. I filled the shaving cup with water, swirled the brush until it foamed, and painted my face like I’d seen him do countless times.
Then came the razor. Instead of gliding smoothly, it tore at my skin. It scraped and pulled, leaving red streaks and nicks across my cheeks. I thought, how in the world does my dad do this every day? Was this what it meant to grow up, gritting your teeth while you bled into the sink?
But I kept at it. Week after week, I tried again, wearing the scratches like badges of effort until my dad finally asked why my face looked so rough. I told him I’d started shaving but couldn’t understand why it hurt so badly. That’s when he opened the cabinet and let me in on the secret: the blade I was using was dull. He always left an old one in the razor, hiding his sharp blades so my mom wouldn’t use them.
I’ve thought about that moment a lot over the years. My dad wasn’t trying to hurt me; he wasn’t even thinking about me. He was guarding what was his. But because of that secrecy, I paid the price. That’s the thing about keeping the good stuff to ourselves: someone else usually ends up carrying the cuts.
Looking back, I also realize how easily we pass down more than we intend. I copied what I saw, but because I didn’t know the hidden rules, I learned the wrong version of the story. Families are like that. Kids inherit not just the good habits, but the selfish ones, too. If we hoard, others learn to hoard. If we hide, others learn to hide.
That first shave left me with more than scratches. It taught me that even small acts of secrecy have ripple effects. And it reminded me that the sharpest blades in life, like love, kindness, and fairness, aren’t meant to be hidden away. They’re meant to be shared.
Dr. Wesley