I was thirteen and home alone one day, overflowing with girlish estrogen and feeling ready to explore my second wonder of womanhood. That is to say, impatience and curiosity got the best of me. I locked the bathroom door and carefully opened my mother’s drawer in the vanity. I unsnapped the smooth, shimmery metal handle from its holder and daringly removed the forbidden cover that concealed its razor-sharp edge. I knew that this was a huge step into the woman’s world. I’d heard that once you start you can never go back. Whatever that could possibly mean to a young teenager! I’ve always loved a dare!

       Nervously I spread a generous layer of my dad’s shaving cream up and down my leg. It felt cool on my skin. I began running the razor’s edge from my ankle up to my knee. I was feeling so grown-up and mature until the fluffy white shaving cream began to turn pink. As I snagged small pieces of the top layer of skin I swear I exposed some nerves. Despite the burning sensation I carefully continued shaving the remainder of my leg, nicking a path up to my bony knee caps. My deep red, all-American-girl blood was surfacing and in some areas began to actually drip. Trying to keep my cool, I bravely began washing the bloody foam from my throbbing leg, and then swiftly lathered up the other leg. Boy, it didn’t seem that tricky when I had seen it done on TV. Then I started thinking that I should call the local blood bank to make a donation. Maybe, I thought, I should even eat some cookies to keep my strength up!

       I was feeling woozy as the pain of one cut was added to the burning of the next gash. I shaved the second leg as fast as I could, which, as seasoned shavers know, is usually a bad idea. I’m not sure if I was more anxious about leaving DNA evidence and Mom being mad that I messed up the bathroom or about the possibility of me leaving a corpse behind. In a panic, I taped a ring of mini pads around my ankle to absorb the platelets that gravity had led on a swift escape mission. I remembered that my dad put dabs of toilet paper on his cuts after shaving. So I placed tiny tourniquets on all the puncture wounds but the blood soaked through quickly and I had to keep replacing the blobs of paper. My legs resembled a vandalized middle-school bathroom ceiling.

       Rinsing the second leg, bent up under my chin in the sink, the water made the open abrasions sting. I remembered from a first-aid class that I needed to Stop! Drop! And Roll! No, wait, that’s not it. I needed to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Of course I didn’t dare stain one of Mom’s good towels so I wrapped Frankenstein gauze to firmly press against the dozens of clumps of soggy tissue scattered around my lower extremities. Eventually most of the bleeding clotted under the snagged skin patches, or at least slowed to a manageable trickle. Feeling really faint by now, I covered my many wounds with bandages. Then I cleaned up the horror scene. I discreetly hid all the red plasma-covered paper and pads in the wastebasket and scrubbed a few lingering drops of evidence out of the rug. As nonchalantly as possible I exited the bathroom and headed down the hall with skinned knees, slit ankles and gashed shins. I hoped I wouldn’t run into anyone who would expect an explanation. They’d probably think it was some radical but failed suicide attempt.        (To be continued)