Most of us can recall fantasizing about what it would be like to be an adult growing up. This curiosity often sparked bold attempts to act ‘grown-up’. Those mature pursuits never seemed to work out but rather humbled us back into youth. My own ‘adult experiment’ of 2004 is hard to forget. It may have happened twenty years ago, but I still have a faint scar to prove it.
It was summer vacation after third grade, and I eagerly awaited to enter fourth grade. One morning, while my brother and grandparents were sound asleep, I woke up to the sounds of my mom whizzing to and from rooms. Watching my mom in the morning was so interesting to me. I wanted to know what she was doing and what it meant to be independent and busy. Stalking her as she got ready kind of made her anxious, but I couldn’t help it.
“Vicky, please move, I’m late!” she would nervously yell as I moved aside.
I stepped to the ledge of our bathtub, where I caught a glimpse of her pale green razor. Its blades glistened through the droplets left from my mom’s morning shower. It was a symbol of adulthood gleaming in the rush of a workday morning, beckoning me for a test run. What does that feel like? I thought to myself. I helped my mom with her belongings and hurried her out so that I could try her razor; I knew she would not let me touch it if I asked her.
Then, I scooted to the edge of the bathtub, picked up the razor, and stuck out my leg.
I examined my shin to see if I even had any leg hair. Unfortunately, my preconception deemed the barely visible vellus hairs on my leg worthy of shaving. Not knowing that shaving cream existed or that even using soap would have been useful, I just added water. What if I cut myself? I second-guessed while eyeballing the razor in my hand. I should have paid attention to my gut feeling. But of course, curiosity won me over.
I stood up, leaned forward, and slid the razor up the side of my leg. I sighed in relief. Wow, it didn’t hurt! I was feeling victorious, having completed a dangerous feat that only adults were allowed to do. I was prideful on my second go as I slid the razor with more speed and pressure. My hand came to a halt as I peeked down and spotted deep crimson droplets slithering down my leg. I fumbled to the faucet as panic consumed me and rinsed my leg in remorse. I’m left staring at a three-inch strip of exposed soft tissue on my shin. There was no band-aid long enough for my bloody mistake, so I put on the longest pair of socks I could find.
I realized I had a choice; tell my brother or grandparents, or clean the mess up and pretend it never happened. I decided on the “adult” decision of going on with the day as if it never happened.
Throughout the morning, I felt self-conscious. I did not want to be asked why I wore long Christmas socks in the middle of summer. But I gradually relaxed, as no one questioned it. I talked to my grandparents and joked around with my brother. The day had been going well. Yet, worry returned as the sun began to set, and the minutes before my mom returned home were inching near. I stayed in my room and panicked one more time.
“No”, I said anxiously to myself as I heard my mom’s keys jingle. She walked in and greeted me and everyone else. I completely ignored her as she ate her dinner. I was convinced I would get away with my experiment.
“Vicky!” she called. My heart raced as I walked toward her. “Why is there blood on your towel?” my mom asked.
I forgot to hide it! I thought to myself. I could not manage words to come out of my mouth, so she repeated the question.
“Why is there blood on your towel?” She stated. “Um, I shaved my leg,” I said shamefully. “Why?” she questioned.
“I wanted to try it,” I uttered. She demanded to see my cut, and I showed her. She took me downstairs to my grandparents. My state of mind switched from anxious to mortified.
My mother blurted out my actions, and they then took me to a room where they stored first aid supplies. I sat down and remained a quiet, embarrassed spectacle while they all examined my leg.
“She sees you do it in the morning and wants to do what you do,” my grandmother expressed in a calm knowing.
I cried as my grandfather rubbed alcohol on my cut. They comforted me and told me that I was a child, not an adult, and that in time, I would get to do adult things. I nodded in agreement and accepted their wisdom.
The next morning, I remained in my bed instead of following my mom. Having an unpleasant surprise snapped me back into wanting to remain a kid, to slow down the growing up process.
Now, as an adult, I witness the daredevil kids who stick their tongues into a shot glass of liquor whilst shriveling. Or the pageant queens in the making spritz perfume until they cough and dart for fresh air. And realize we’ll all have that full circle moment of wishing we could rewind back to childhood.
Featured image via Vivek Kumar on Unsplash
