The hard lines that separate my face 

from the rest of the world begin to blur

as my hairline recedes. 

Whiskers become stubble becomes smooth skin;

red spots come and goes like seaweed.

I remember my first time,

held in Mom's arms,

how she pointed and said,

"there you are."

I'll admit that "you" is a pretty heavy concept,

heavier than the skin of my neck

that sags under my chin. 

Now there are two images in the mirror,

and beneath my face, wet with shaving cream,

my son's hairless cheeks begin to change

under the gaze of his widening eyes.