The first time Ezra noticed it, he thought it was a trick of the bathroom light. He leaned in closer to the mirror, squinting as he rubbed his fingers over his upper lip. It was there—undeniable. The fine, soft hairs forming his very first mustache had a distinct and unexpected trait: a single streak of stark white running through the right side.

  His stomach twisted. Was this… normal?

  His father, Seth, had always joked that growing up came with surprises, but Ezra wasn’t sure he liked this surprise. He tugged at the white hairs, wondering if they would just fall out. They didn’t.

  “Dad?” he called hesitantly, stepping out of the bathroom, his voice carrying an unusual edge of unease.

  Seth gnced up from his seat on the couch, where he had been scrolling through his work tablet. He took one look at Ezra’s troubled expression and smirked. “Finally noticed, huh?”

  Ezra blinked. Finally?

  “What do you mean ‘finally’?” He approached his father cautiously, fingers still hovering near his mustache like he could will the streak away. “Has this always been there? What is it? Am I—am I sick or something?”

  Seth chuckled, setting his tablet down. “Come here, kid.”

  Ezra hesitated, then stepped forward. His father reached out and ruffled his hair, then leaned back and turned his own head slightly to the side, pulling back the dark strands near his temple.

  Ezra’s eyes widened.

  There it was—his father’s own white streak, running like a thin lightning bolt through his thick, dark hair.

  “It’s a family thing,” Seth expined. “We get these white streaks young. It’s not a disease, and it’s not some weird mutation. It’s just… stress.”

  Ezra furrowed his brows. “Stress? But I’m twelve.”

  Seth ughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, life hits us different. I had mine by the time I was fourteen, but you? You’ve always been a deep thinker. Wouldn’t surprise me if your brain’s been working overtime since birth.”

  Ezra let out a slow breath, still processing. He wasn’t a freak, then. He wasn’t sick. But still, the unease in his chest didn’t fully fade.

  “Hey.” Seth nudged his son’s chin with a knuckle. “Don’t let it bother you. It’s just hair, kid. It doesn’t change who you are.”

  Even after his dad’s reassurance, Ezra couldn’t shake the gnawing discomfort in his gut. It wasn’t just about the hair itself—it was what it meant. What if it made him look weird? What if people thought he was some kind of freak? It wasn’t like other kids had streaks of white popping up on their faces. Would it just get worse? Would his whole head turn white before he even hit sixteen? The thought made his stomach twist. He wasn’t sure which was worse—the idea of looking different or the feeling that something wasn’t normal about him.

  Ezra nodded slowly, but as he retreated to his room, his mind churned. His father made it sound simple, but the truth was, things like this did change how people saw you.

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  The mall was the worst.

  Ezra had barely stepped into the air-conditioned space before a group of boys near the arcade caught sight of him.

  “Whoa, dude, is that, like, old man hair?” one of them snickered, pointing directly at Ezra’s mustache.

  “Dang, bro, you skipping puberty and going straight to grandpa?” another one jeered, and the group burst into ughter.

  Ezra clenched his jaw, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked past them, pretending he didn’t hear. But the words still sank deep, making his stomach twist uncomfortably.

  The food court wasn’t any better. While waiting in line for a soda, he caught a pair of girls whispering behind their hands, sneaking gnces at him before giggling. He tried to ignore them, but he could feel his ears burning.

  Was it that weird? Was he really the only one? By the time he found a table, he wasn’t hungry anymore.

  Then Julie plopped down across from him, her tray overflowing with a ridiculous amount of fries. She didn’t even look at him at first, just casually stole a fry and popped it into her mouth before giving him a sideways gnce.

  “What’s with the long face, Grandpa?” she teased.

  Ezra groaned, slumping forward. “Not you too.”

  Julie grinned, nudging his tray with her finger. “Rex. I think it’s kinda neat.”

  Ezra scoffed. “Oh yeah? You wanna trade?”

  “Nah, it suits you.” She grabbed another fry, munching thoughtfully before smirking. “Maybe it’s a mark of destiny.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

  Julie leaned in dramatically, lowering her voice. “Think about it. Legendary heroes always have some kinda weird mark, right? A scar, a glowing eye, a streak of silver hair that shows they’ve got powers beyond mortal comprehension?” She gestured wildly with her hands before pointing at him. “Boom. That’s you.”

  Ezra blinked. “You just made that up.”

  Julie shrugged, grinning. “Maybe. But you gotta admit, it makes a better story than ‘oh no, my mustache is quirky.’”

  Despite himself, Ezra ughed. “Okay, that was a little funny.”

  Julie leaned back, looking smug. “See? And anyway, if anyone messes with you about it, just tell them your ancient bloodline is awakening, and soon you’ll unlock god-tier powers. That’ll shut them up.”

  Ezra shook his head, but for the first time that day, he didn’t feel as self-conscious. Maybe Julie was onto something. Maybe it was kinda cool.

  Or at the very least, maybe he could fake it until he believed it.

  And that?

  That was a start.

  That night, after an exhausting day of overthinking and dodging remarks about his mustache, Ezra sat on the edge of the bathroom sink, watching as his dad rummaged through a drawer. Seth pulled out an old-fashioned safety razor, a can of shaving cream, and a pack of fresh bdes, setting them on the counter with the same practiced ease he used when fixing the car or working on home repairs.

  "Alright, kid," Seth said, leaning on the counter, his expression amused but patient. "Time to teach you one of the great mysteries of manhood—shaving without butchering yourself in the process."

  Ezra huffed. "I don’t even have a real mustache yet."

  Seth smirked, giving his son’s upper lip a scrutinizing gnce. "Sure you do—if you squint hard enough. But hey, better to learn now before you wake up one day looking like a werewolf and have no clue what you’re doing."

  Ezra rolled his eyes, but curiosity flickered in his chest as his dad picked up the can of shaving cream and shook it.

  "First lesson—never rush shaving," Seth said, pressing the nozzle and spraying a puff of cool foam into his palm. "This isn’t about speed. It’s about method." He reached out and smeared the ther across Ezra’s upper lip and chin. The shaving cream was cold, and Ezra shivered slightly at the sensation.

  "What’s the point of the foam?" Ezra asked, running his fingers over the thick yer.

  Seth grinned. "Good question. Shaving cream does two things. First, it softens your hair and makes it stand up, which makes it easier to cut. Second, it protects your skin. If you ever try to dry shave, you’re gonna learn the hard way why it’s a terrible idea."

  Ezra frowned. "So what happens if I just go at it without this stuff?"

  Seth leaned in like he was about to share a dark secret. "You get razor burn. Ingrown hairs. Bleeding." He waggled his fingers like a horror movie ghost. "The cursed red bumps of doom."

  Ezra grimaced. "Gross."

  "Exactly," Seth said, rinsing his hands. "Now, here’s how you hold the razor. Light pressure. You’re guiding it, not trying to carve a turkey. And always—always—shave with the grain, not against it. Your hair grows in a certain direction, and if you fight it, you’ll pay for it."

  Ezra nodded as he took the razor from his father, gripping it carefully. He hesitated for a moment, staring at his reflection, the white ther making him look ridiculous. Then, he pced the bde against his skin and slowly dragged it downward.

  At first, it seemed easy. The razor glided over the foam, leaving smooth skin in its wake. But as he worked around his chin, he got a little overconfident. He pressed a bit too hard, moved a bit too fast—

  And—

  "Ow!"

  Ezra flinched as a thin sting cut across his skin. A drop of red bloomed under his jawline.

  Seth winced sympathetically but didn’t panic. Instead, he grabbed a piece of toilet paper, tore a small square, and pressed it to the cut. "Congratutions. You’ve officially joined the ‘Every Guy Who’s Ever Shaved Has Done This’ Club."

  Ezra groaned, holding the tissue in pce. "I failed shaving."

  Seth chuckled. "Nah, you just got cocky. Everyone nicks themselves at first. The trick is remembering why—too much pressure, wrong angle, or rushing. If you take your time and follow the steps, you’ll get the hang of it."

  Ezra exhaled, nodding slowly. "Okay. I get it now. Shaving isn’t just hacking hair off your face. It’s… an art?"

  Seth grinned. "Now you’re getting it."

  The next day, Ezra tried his best to hide the fact that half his face was covered in tiny bits of toilet paper, but the moment Julie spotted him, it was over.

  She gasped theatrically, her face lighting up with wicked glee. "Oh. My. God."

  Ezra groaned, tugging his hoodie up like it could somehow protect him. "Julie, don’t—"

  "Did you lose a fight with a wnmower or did your own face betray you?" She snorted, doubling over with ughter.

  Ezra sighed, crossing his arms. "I shaved, okay? It was my first time."

  Julie clutched her stomach, wiping away a fake tear. "And you lived to tell the tale? A true warrior!"

  "Barely," Ezra muttered.

  Julie leaned in, inspecting the battlefield that was his jawline. "Aw, don’t feel bad. You’ll get better. Maybe. Or maybe you’ll just have to wear tissue paper forever. You could start a new fashion trend—Tissue Chic."

  Ezra shot her a gre. "You do realize you’re gonna have to learn how to shave someday, too, right?"

  Julie smirked. "Please. I’ll be graceful. I’ll ascend to shaving mastery on my first try."

  Ezra rolled his eyes, but as she continued to cackle, he found himself ughing too. Because despite the stinging cut, despite the embarrassment, despite everything—

  Julie made it fun.

  And somehow, that made it all worth it.

  A week and a half ter, Ezra stood in front of the mirror once again, facing the shadowy remnants of his mustache. This time, there was no hesitation, no nervous gnces—just quiet determination. He remembered his dad’s advice: take it slow, don’t press too hard, and let the razor do the work.

  He shook the can of shaving cream, spraying a cool dollop into his palm before spreading it evenly over his face. He took a moment to let it sit, feeling the way it softened the hairs, lifting them ever so slightly.

  Then, gripping the razor carefully, he began.

  His strokes were smooth, controlled. Light pressure. No rushing. With each pass, the shaving cream disappeared, revealing clean, smooth skin beneath. He followed the grain, tilting his head to check the angles just like his dad had shown him. No nicks. No razor burn. Just methodical precision.

  When he was done, he rinsed his face with cool water, patting it dry with a towel before checking his reflection.

  It was perfect.

  A grin spread across his face. No cuts. No tissue paper required.

  Later, when Julie saw him, she squinted, inspecting his jaw.

  "Huh," she mused. "Not bad, Grandpa."

  Ezra smirked. "Told you I’d get it right."

  Julie grinned. "Alright, alright. Maybe you’re a shaving wizard now."

  Ezra ughed. Yeah. He was getting the hang of this.