Caregiving Unzipped: Oh, the Battle of the Shave

 

Oh, the Battle of the Shave

Got Dad up, out, and fed this morning — standard routine. I’ve been feeling a bit peaky this past week, so I’ve backed off some things. Problem is, when I back off, the Senior Helpers seem to take that as their cue. Not always, but lately it’s been hot and draining. Our AC rarely drops below 76°F, and while I’ve acclimated to it, the irony isn’t lost on me: years in computer labs and server rooms never prepped me for this kind of heat tolerance. People used to call those places walk-in freezers. Never bothered me — I thought they were kind of nice. Must be the Looks-like-Santa gene kicking in. North Pole vibes and all that. These days I mostly wear shorts and a t-shirt — year-round home uniform.

Anyway… Dad was itching to go to bed much earlier than usual. Probably bored with whatever was on the TV — not that he bothers to fake interest anymore. Happens. He doesn’t read these days either. He used to, almost as much as I do, which is no small claim. Now the books sit gathering dust — like backup dancers who missed their cue.

I hope this doesn’t disillusion anyone, but I lean hard into honesty here: Dad and I? We’re cussy. We throw words like other families toss Frisbees. He cusses at the helpers daily as they try to get him dressed or cleaned down around the “fruit and veg” area — as the Brits like to call it. Me? I like some Brit phrasings myself. I prefer “wanker” over the American equivalents. There’s something artisanal about it. Slightly less crude, slightly more refined — like choosing Dijon over plain yellow mustard.

Lately, no one’s been pushing Dad to shave daily — and that’s a problem. Hair’s easier to tame when it’s just breaking ground. Once it grows out, no matter how you slice or buzz, he claims it hurts. Dementia folk love that word: “hurts.” It can mean anything — or nothing. “You’re hurting me!” can float out of nowhere. Sometimes they say it when you’re across the room and merely thinking about touching them.

So tonight, with Dad hours from bedtime, I looked at his scraggle-covered chin. You’d think I’d just let him go full beard, seeing as I have one — but Dad never wore a beard. Since we resemble each other, my beard feels like one of the few things that marks us apart. And trimming his into something presentable? That’s not less work — it’s more. And more often. Facial hair grows like debt — quiet and fast.

I brought out the electric shaver and mirror. Asked him to use it. He declined. I told him no — he wasn’t going to bed with that fuzz. He told me to f-off. I told him FU right back and get busy shaving. Showed him the mirror. “You look like a homeless drifter,” I said. He told me to go stuff myself. I called him a twinkie. All of it with a laugh just behind the voice. Always is. Dad’s got that mischievous twinkle sometimes — like he’s in on the joke even if he’s forgotten the setup.

I transformed the kitchen into an impromptu barbershop: trimmer, guides, shaving cream, cape, Chux pad under the chair. Got him seated — grudgingly. Cape on. Trimmer humming. Then came the wrestling match. Dad doesn’t know his own strength — but I know mine. Leverage, positioning — I never hurt him, but I do know how to hold off an uncooperative force.

I used to be a cowboy. Vaquero. Buckaroo — though no one called me that unless they were looking for a new career in dental reconstruction. I herded cattle, sheep, worked ranches. Did the hard-but-gentle stuff like shearing sheep. Didn’t have a choice, but got good at it. Haven’t ridden a horse in years, but I could probably still shear a sheep. I definitely managed with my elderly critter tonight.

You’ve got to know someone’s physical breaking point — that line where bone and muscle meet frustration. Especially when they’re fighting hard, unaware of just how brittle their frame’s become. They’ll swing, shout, twist — and it’s up to you to make sure nothing actually breaks. It was a struggle. At one point I handed him the electric razor and told him to finish the job himself. He gave it a go. I had to take over. I kind of miss having a lasso.

If someone had walked in mid-shave, they’d probably dial Adult Protective Services. There was a lot of “You’re hurting me! Stop it! Help!” from Dad, and a chorus of “Stop being a twinkie. Shaddup. Hold still. This would’ve been done ten minutes ago if you just — hold still!” from me. We sounded like a tragic sitcom taped in a rodeo arena.

Did what I could. Had Dad wipe the cream off his face. Pulled the cape, brought his walker. He stood, wandered toward the living room. I asked where he was headed.

“I’m going to watch TV. Can I have some coffee? Anything to nibble on? Any cake?”

And just like that, the bedtime demands evaporated. He’s out there now — watching a favorite show, sipping coffee, eating Raspberry Danish. Eventually, the night will catch up and he’ll want bed again. That’s how it works — with him, with me.

I love my dad. I think he loves me. We speak our language — smirks and cusses, barbs and shared crumbs of humor. It’s not everyone’s family dynamic. Might not be yours. If it’s not, thank the stars or count your luck. But I wouldn’t trade it. What we say and how we say it — always with a grin, never with anger — that’s catharsis. At least in this house.