NOTE: The following humorous essay is drawn from the non-fiction book “A Family United Amongst Itself” and was authored by Barb (Blahnik) Smalley. Said book was edited by Fred Blahnik and published in 2012.
One would think that having seven older sisters in my immediate Blahnik family–while acknowledging the fact twin Bonnie is only a few minutes my senior–as well as a mother, someone would have taken the time to explain and prepare me for the mystery and myriad physical demands attendant to reaching puberty.
NOT!!!!!
Seems that as I physically matured from a girl into a young woman, I was left to figure out for myself and subsequently handle solitarily every one of my body changes……like SHAVING, for example!! Although in fairness I should be forthright with my readers and confess this point right up front: I did enter puberty pretty early and was an exceptionally hairy young lady. Sadly, my overly vain Blahnik older sisters did not even want me to borrow their sweaters and tops because I perspired a lot secondary to all the hair under my armpits.
The only bathroom in our leviathan house near Spring Valley, Minnesota while I was growing up was square and tiny, and was of course used by our whole Blahnik family. There was a little shelf in one corner of the oversized cubicle where Dad kept his anachronistic shaving mug; inside it was an old steel razor that looked to be of about Civil War vintage. I took keen note of the fact there was a shiny, very sharp blade mounted inside that razor.
Well, one evening when our Blahnik house seemed a bit less hectic than normal (Was it real or just my imagination?!), I crept into the bathroom and took Dad’s razor down from its perch in the corner. Unbelievably, it only took a couple of swift strokes with that sharp instrument to remove all the hair from under both my armpits. I hurriedly put the razor back where I found it. Immensely relieved, I could now raise either arm fully in class to answer questions put forth by the teacher or play ball in gym class minus inhibitions due to the fear of being arrantly ashamed of my troublesome hirsutism.
As we all know, hair does grow–oftentimes very rapidly–so a couple weeks later I waited until no one was around and helped myself to Dad’s razor once more. Although my confidence level was sky-high following my earlier conquest, for some reason this time the razor did not glide quite so smoothly over my pubescent skin–the blade actually seemed a bit duller than before–yet I still managed to finish shaving my armpits without undue incident. But instead of stopping with those smooth armpits and quitting while ahead, I made the fateful decision to proceed onward with shaving my legs for the first time.
BIG MISTAKE, BARB!!!!!
The first leg went reasonably well, although that aforementioned blade seemed to be getting duller with each passage over my tender skin. I stretched out my second leg to shave the hair on the front of my calf–my shin, in other words. And then…..the combination of a woefully dull blade and unintentionally turning the primeval razor a bit on its side while I applied downward pressure forced it to slip, cut deep, and slice a sizable strip of skin from the front of my leg…..
JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH………OH MY GOD DID THAT SUDDEN INADVERTENT INCISION HURT AND NEXT BLEED LIKE HOLY HELL!!!!!!!!!!!
I still tremble and it gives me goosebumps today when I think about that sharp, dirty old razor cutting so deep into my puerile flesh. The reader should further remember at this point, though, that I was doing my clandestine shaving without anyone else in our Blahnik household knowing about it; therefore I could not complain to anybody or seek out sympathy, even from my conjoined-in-spirit twin Bonnie. Accordingly, for several days thereafter I had to baby my wounded leg, wear long slacks wherever I went, and take great pains to not let anyone witness the almost constant blood flow oozing from the long, macabre laceration.
Yet to make a miserable situation even worse, Dad got upset with brother Joe one evening and accused him of using his(Dad’s) razor. Dad said he did not have enough money to purchase additional razor blades right then……and now his lone remaining blade was inexplicably dull. Dad went on to roar that he could tell someone had been using his razor without his permission, and I imagine he thought carefree, easy-going Joe–a prolific blame magnet if ever there was one–was the only possible candidate in our female-dominated Blahnik household.
Despite the inherent logic of this argument, I still do not think Dad believed Joe and instinctively thought he was fibbing. It didn’t help matters one bit that Mom decided to enter the fray at this juncture, piling on Joe and maliciously haranguing him about borrowing Dad’s razor without first seeking permission, and then compounding the magnitude of his original sin tenfold by blatantly lying about it. To his eternal credit, Joe fought back gamely and aggressively in defense of his honor. He insisted to Dad that he had never used his razor, that he had one of his own–so therefore why would he have any need to be borrowing Dad’s?
I just stood quietly by in the background and took all of this in. And, yes, Reader–I DID feel terrible about the volcanic, emotion-charged atmosphere I had personally created. Certainly I felt bad letting the clueless punching bag Joe take all of the blame for a mess of my making, yet at my young age I still did not possess the requisite courage and character to speak up and admit any guilt, and besides…..I was more than a little embarrassed to talk about something as personal as feminine hygiene with my Depression-era father!!
So, after all these years, allow me to start making amends: SORRY, JOE, for the copious amount of grief and verbal missiles you undeservedly absorbed back then!!! I never did tell Dad the truth regarding this misunderstanding and subsequent flare-up. If it is any consolation, however, the shame I felt at the time did prompt me to speak with one of my older sisters about hygienically appropriate female shaving. She then helped me purchase the supplies I needed so I thankfully did not have to sneak into our tiny bathroom and “borrow” Dad’s venerable old razor anymore in the future.
Fred's Soapbox 