When I was young, it struck me as odd how my father would cringe at his own reflection. He would try to hide the expression from me, but I would always notice; I don't think he realized how apparent a grimace is when made with a mouth full of serrated, pointed teeth. I never questioned, however, because I figured that it was a grown-up matter, and that he would let me know the trouble only if it directly concerned me.
However, I did get worried every time I walked in on him shaving. The man would chase his whiskers around furiously with a scavenged, improvised blade, unforgivingly mowing down each little hair and compromising for the close shave in the form of deep, ragged cuts and gouges. The day my mom finally found him an electric razor was one of the happiest days of his life. But even then, he would press the razor too sharply against his jaw and nick himself.
He never liked to wear the finery my mother would buy for him, even though the clothes were perfectly tailored for him. Instead, he'd continually mend, wash, and wear the same, few, tattered pieces of Old World clothing every day. The jacket, shirt, vest, and trousers were all painstakingly patched and repaired, as day after day he'd catch his claws on the sleeves, the buttons, the legs; new rips and tears would appear, and again and again they'd be stitched shut. Lost buttons would be hunted down like heinous criminals, and seldom would my father agree to settle for replacements. Even as a child, I recognized just how absurd this behavior was. The clothes he so carefully guarded didn't even look right on him- they were ill-fitting and large on his frame, and the jacket, more patch than original cloth, was a misshapen thing. Why would a king insist on dressing like a pauper?
I didn't understand until I was fourteen years old that my father's behavior was in fact a series of desperate attempts to retain vestiges of his human life…