Devonne Brown

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I don’t remember shaving my sister’s legs when she was days old. I heard that story so many times growing up that I can feel my dad’s razor in my tiny hand. He was a barber, and the razor blade was double edged. The razor, thank god, wasn’t a straight one, though he did have a pearl handled one that’s in my jewelry box now.

His razor was one of those t-shaped things that had a mechanism. When you turned the middle, the blade holder on the top opened like gull wings, and the blade could be removed or replaced. It was the zenith of shaving technology. Dad was, afterall, a barber. 

Who better than test his mechanical marvel on than a helpless bag of barely moving bones and whimpers? My eighteen month old brain must have been a perfectionistic genius to decide those tiny hairy legs of hers needed a manicure. I don’t remember, but judging from my personality now, I am sure I was extremely careful. I know I did exquisite work. 

I was told that her crying drew attention to my attempts at her aesthetic improvements. Mom, had it been me, would have flown into a careful, ragefilled panic. She stood at the crossroads of saving both children. One from physical danger, the other from the emotional damage from a raging parent. Everyone survived.

I can see a big eyed, eighteen month old look up into the eyes of a terrified adult clutching a bleeding baby and a razor wondering what the fuss was all about. I had no concept of danger, injury, or blood at that age.

I still cannot imagine myself finding the razor, bringing it to the crib, and using it to shave the baby’s legs. Dad’s shaving ritual must have made an enormous impression on me, though I have no memory of him ever doing it. I still have his razor, probably the one I used to shave the baby. Those things don’t wear out, neither do the tales about them.