The Legacy of Dad and His Norelco

Posted November 19, 2011 by jimhigley

My smooth-faced dad. Circa 1980.

During the month of November, the “Movember” movement is responsible for the sprouting of moustaches on men’s faces around the world. With their Mos, these men raise vital funds and awareness for men’s health, including prostate and testicular cancer. If you think growing facial hair is a follicly fickle thing for a guy to do, read on.

The moment I spoke the words, I wanted to reel them back.

“Anything you need, Dad?”

Was that the best I could offer my 72-year-old father as he lay in his hospital bed during the final hours of his two-year battle with cancer?

When I first walked in his room, his eyes were closed, allowing me the opportunity to pause and watch the rising and lowering of the thin, institutional blanket draped over his torso and legs. That was followed by the all-too-familiar hugging of other family members sitting by his side. That was followed by my all-too-familiar whispering to them asking how dad was doing.

“I’m fine,” hollered the guy we all thought was asleep. “I can hear everything you’re saying.”

Of course he could. Dad—especially this dad—had a special gift that transcended every situation. The good. The bad. The ugly. And now death.

I sat on the edge of his bed and took his hand in mine. My dad had stocky, meaty fingers. When I was a child they struck me as the hands of a laborer even though he was anything but.

“You didn’t need to come,” he said. “Are the kids here?”

I could feel the ridges of his fingerprints. The same ridges I felt every morning of my teen years when he woke me up with a 60-second back scratch. His hands were still rough. The same familiar dryness. He didn’t have great-looking fingernails. But he gave the best morning back scratches ever known by this 16-year-old boy.

I was his baby. Boy number five. This man took very good care of me as a child. After my mother died, when I was 14, he never missed a beat in filling the parental void in my life. He mastered cooking. He mastered laundry. He mastered scheduling. Most of all, he selflessly mastered my world.

“I left the kids with a sitter,” I explained.  “Basketball. Gymnastics. Too many things.”

The part about the sitter was true. The rest of it was not. The kids had already said what would be their good-byes to Grandpa when he was healthier a couple weeks earlier. I knew it was the right decision. This trip was for me.

He still hadn’t opened his eyes. And I was aware that my thumb was stroking his hand. Probably a little too hard. But he didn’t flinch.

Then my stupid question.

“Is there anything you need, Dad?”

It was just a far too casual kind of question. Like I was running to the store and was offering to grab an extra gallon of milk. There were a million things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him how much I had dreaded this moment since the day Mom died 22 years earlier. I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t imagine my world without him. So many options of things to say. And I asked him if he needed something. What was he supposed to say?

“Get in the top drawer of my nightstand,” he said.


“Top drawer. Just open it.”

I did as I was told.

Inside was a bible. His dopp kid. And a pair of hospital socks.

“Get my electric razor out. I need you to shave my face. They do a crappy job here.”

His liver may have been shutting down. But his sense of humor was still intact.

“Sure, Dad. But I’m not sure how much better I’ll be…”

“Hush. Just start.”

And then I began this ritual for the first time. And the last.

With the buzzing of the electric razor in my right hand I proceeded to pull the skin of his face gently taut and carefully glided his Norelco in baby circles. It was like practicing my cursive “o’s.” I could feel his jaw bone as I worked my way around his cheeks. I wondered how—while his body was dying—his whiskers could still grow.

I inspected the areas I had shaved with a feather-touch from the flats of my fingers. Slowly. Exploring. This old, familiar face.

As I moved to his upper lip, I remembered hating how he chewed gum when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time in the car with him as a boy. Road trips. The Nebraska countryside. My dad chewed gum in the car. With vigor. And intent.

He was now perfectly still.

Some people have a last meal. My dad wanted a last shave.

When I was a little child, my dad would lay on the couch. Sideways. He’d bend his legs in a way to create a little space between himself and the back of the couch. It was a place he reserved for me. He called it a helicopter. I loved hanging out there. In the protected world of my dad.

Now I was the dad. Playing “helicopter” countless times over the years with my three children. In fact, two of them were now too old to play helicopter with me.

“That feels good,” my dad said as I rounded his chin and flicked the razor off.

I wondered what felt good. I knew what felt good to me.

“Do I get a tip, Dad?”

“Hell, no,” he said. Eyes still closed.

Dad eventually fell asleep. At least I think he did. It was hard to tell. The tips of my fingers rested on his cheeks until I eventually heard my brother clear his throat behind me. I had forgotten I wasn’t alone.

Expressing my feelings has never been a stumbling block for me. Snotty, messy crying comes quite easily—if that is what I’m feeling. But that moment, that spot on the edge of Dad’s bed was absolutely not the place to express those emotions.

That place was 42 steps away. Down the hall. Past the nurse’s station and the waiting room. Beyond the supply closet and a stone’s throw past the vending area. It was behind a door that said “Stairs.” Under a wall mounted fluorescent light.

And I couldn’t run there fast enough.

Anyone walking past that door in the following minutes might hear what they thought to be a wounded animal on the other side. Perhaps a coyote with a leg caught in a bear trap? Some poor, injured animal sharing its pain with the world.

But pain wasn’t my primary emotion. Nor was it fear over what the next 24 hours would likely bring. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t a desire to recapture lost moments.

The emotion came from Dad’s unexpected answer to my question.

It was an answer that brought closure and clarity to our relationship. And it gave me a lasting reminder of his legacy.

“Anything you need, Dad?”

As usual, his answer was razor sharp.

Movember is the month when men around the world are reminded of the importance of standing up and taking care of each other. As a prostate cancer survivor, myself, I’m touched by this in a very personal way. As the son of Bob Higley I’m especially reminded of his lasting message.

We need each other, guys.

Learn more about Movember. And if you’re up for supporting my fundraising efforts with a contribution, I’d greatly appreciate it.

  • Hygge123

    Thanks–beautifully put. God bless.

    • Jim Higley

      Thanks so much for reading and sharing. He was quite a man!

  • J Rump

    I was scanning the posts on FB and at first glance, saw the pix of your dad, and thought to myself “that man looks like Bob Higley” so I looked closer and it was.  It really tickled me to see you had posted a picture of him, but then read what you wrote and I bawled like a baby.  You were so very lucky to have had that last shave with him.  My dad died about 2 months ago, very abruptly – wasn’t sick – just out mowing his yard (88-1/2 yrs old) …. sure wish I could have had a few moments with him before he died.  But maybe I was lucky, I was spared the “agony” of knowing I was going to lose him.   Anyway, it was great to read about your memories of your dad.

    • Jim Higley

      Joanie, thanks for such a nice note. My dad loved you like a daughter! And I’m so sorry about your own dad’s passing. Good men, they both were…

  • Doug

    This is a wonderful story and inspires this memory of full-circle fatherhood: As a boy sprouting facial hair, my dad gave me his Noreleco to use and told me that ‘once you go from electric to wet shaving, you cannot go back…the electric will not do as good of a job…’ So I never stopped using my Norelco, to this day it’s my daily shaving tool. Recently, when my 79 year-old dad entered a skilled nursing facility he needed an electric shaver, and I was able to give him a new one that I’d purchased, which is now how he shaves. Thanks again, Jim!

    • Jim Higley

      Doug, thanks for such a nice note. It’s funny how so many things in life seem to keep coming back around – agree! Thanks for reading and sharing! Jim