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My brother and I often debated whether dad would shave his moustache off or not, just so once we could see if his sophistication remained intact without it. A direct request—when we were younger—had failed too easily, so this time around, for Father’s Day, we gave him a gold-plated razor (fully functional but, unfortunately for us, a novelty never meant to be used), encased in a lined wooden box with an engraving on the top: THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES. He returned a gracious laugh. “Do you think anyone insinuated as politely to Proust to shave? Or Nietzsche?” Not to Nietzsche, I thought—his vortex of facial hair was never a moustache proper. Proust, on the other hand? First-class work. His always appears impeccably groomed in photos. He would’ve been devastated had a friend handed him a razor in mocking adoration, I’m certain. My brother probably had misgivings along this line since later he suggested the gift was a total bust. I insisted the gag was appreciated; then the more I imagined dad’s clean-shaven face, the more thankful I was never knowing exactly how many of his mother’s kisses died underneath that furry umbrella. |
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