These things that look like whiskers that are sticking out from either side are the dynamic scaffolding of the cell.

In those days, one hid much else as well grown men didn't embrace one another, unless someone had died, and not always then you shook hands or, at a ball game, thumped your friend's back and exchanged blows meant to be codes for affection once out of childhood you'd never again know the shock of your father's whiskers on your cheek, not until mores at last had evolved, and you could hug another man, then hold on for a moment, then even kiss (your fathers bristles white and stiff now).