I see him still, his face in mine.
In this grey hair, that laugher line.
Me on a chair to match his height
Dad shaving in the morning light.
Reflecting back a boy and man
The man now gone the boy a man
Dip the brush and whip the lather
Foamy-faced now I’m the father
And on the chair stood next to me
A little boy his dad to see
Now wet the razor scrape the skin
From neck to jaw from ear to chin
This morning though I’m all alone
The boy’s grown up and left our home
But when I look into the glass
I never let the moment pass
I see three faces not just mine
Young shavers standing in a line
Across the years and out of time.
The featured image is of my father, Brian, with me and my sister, Joanne, I think on holiday at Swanage, Dorset, in the early 1960s. Clearly the photograph was taken (by my mum I’m guessing) well before I started shaving. But sadly I don’t have anything other than mental images of the daily ritual that unites fathers and sons everywhere (or certainly those who aren’t bearded)!