If Judy Bloom wrote for pre-teen boys.

A close shave.
I grew up in Southern California with clueless Okie parents. It was the dust bowl survivors meet Ozzie and Harriette. Misfits all of us. We had no social skills much less me remembering to not burp when in the cafeteria at lunch.
I would have to admit myself an early teen boy back in junior high the whole experience was thoroughly awful. Dreadful. Just a complete disaster. An experience I wouldn’t wish on any seventh or eighth grade boy or girl. Had the Golden Gate bridge been nearby, I might had jumped. But glad it wasn’t. A brown paper sack over my head would have worked instead.
But anyway, it was my so-called junior high friends that made it so difficult. We all were almost always watching for self-incriminating foibles coming from each other. Habits and gestures a friend could call you down on. Just the way you comb your hair could create a riotous response from your buddies. My dad cut my hair and a bit to close. Looking like a clean cut as if a bowl was placed on my head. Just a bit too much off the back and sides. Others had the funds to go to a barber shop and request a flattop or a buzzcut or an oily swept back ducktail or whatever.
None the less I had this friend in junior high I knew going back to grade school. I will just call him Steve. He was sort of over the top critical. Critical of almost everything I said and did. My self-unawareness of my prepubescent early teen boy starting to grow peach fuzz on my face seemed to be an annoyance to Steve. I was not paying much attention to this. After close examination, long blond random hairs began to grow down my jaws. I really didn’t give it much thought. Just ugly hair growing on my face.
But I guessed it mattered to Steve. He mentioned to me in a very harsh tone, “when are you going to shave?” Then I responded, “me, I don’t shave.” Then he started to pull at some of the random hairs on my cheeks. It did hurt when he picked at them. Never the less, I never gave serious thought of shaving. I hadn’t ever shaved. Only my dad shaved.
Now here is where it really gets bad. When I got home from school, I told my older sister I needed to shave. I never shaved and don’t know where to start. Shave with an electric shaver or with a razor blade. Don’t know. But then my sister said she could shave me. But I told her no. But she kept on insisting she could shave my face. Not sure if she could do it safely. So, after a couple of moments of yes, I can and no you can’t, I gave in. She found my dad’s Remington electric shaver and with great delight she started buzzing it all off. I think it was that moment that prompted her to go to cosmetology school.
All in all, and the next day my shaven face seemed to satisfy my friend Steve. Now, what to do with these black face zits. Don’t know.