When you’re too lazy to bother shaving.
Greetings, fellow sufferers. How fare you in these cursed and plagued times?
I don’t know about you… but I haven’t shaved in weeks. I don’t quite see the point. If the world is going to end, I’d might as well dress the part.
Trouble is… I don’t grow facial hair the way most men grow facial hair. My unshorn face looks more like a cat pillow. Wispy, errant, and sparse.
And yet, the longer I wait the prouder I become.
I used to roll my eyes at those baroquely moustachioed man-chaps… and with good reason, sure. It takes a certain kind of twerp to wear a vandyke while ordering yoga pants on an iPhone. All those tiresome hipsterettes with their twee little moustache tattoos on their fingerside. Enough, I say. Enough.
But the longer I wait… the more I see.
My moustache… it’s growing fuller. My cheeks and chin are knitting together. Broader. So many Movembers and Moustache Marches I’ve sat by, soft-faced and sidelined. But now I see my beardlette growing darker, potent, and powerful.
What if I didn’t shave at all? What if I stopped all forms of self-care from the neck up? Would I summon enough to one day have a knotted Dwarven warrior-braid?
Or the conical stalactite of a Pharoh?
Martin Van Buren’s sideburn corona?
A Rabbi’s tetragrammatonic pour?
A Marxian whisker riot?
O! So many me’s I could be.