The first time he shaved, he’d cut himself. Not badly enough to where it bled much, but enough to where he noticed the sharp sting of it. Dad soaked a cotton ball in peroxide and pressed it gently to his upper lip and held it there. He took in the new lines on his father's face, the roughness of his skin, the age of it. It felt like a new discovery, a strange thing to notice in just that moment.
“I can do it for you next time,” his father said in that quiet way he had when he was feeling bad about things. “You should let me.” But he didn’t want to let him. He wanted to feel as grown up as the little hairs atop his lip were telling him he was, only he couldn’t make himself feel it that day. He felt small and shaky and needy. He wanted a hug he knew he was too old for. The kind of hug very young children get without asking for it. The kind he’d gotten more times than he could count, and yet, he couldn’t just now recall the feeling of being pressed against his father's chest, the smell of his perfume–very manly, with only a hint of sweetness to it–the stuff his father had used for as long as he could remember and that he’d occasionally stolen small drops of when he was going out to see a girl he liked or to a rare school dance.
“You’re all set, kiddo.” Father stepped back and dropped the cotton ball into the trash can. There was a trace of sadness on his face and in his voice, and it surprised him. His father was not a sad man, nor a sentimental one. And he decided then that he would let him shave him the next time. For both of them.
This is my attempt at today's five minute freewrite prompt - unedited, because well - freewrite, and frankly, I'm feeling lazy today. If you want to participate, check out 
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