I used a new brand of razor to shave my whiskers this morning. My face was so smooth afterwards; it felt to me as if it was someone else’s. I’ve been rubbing it a lot since then, just trying to find parts that are familiar. Shaving seems a waste of time, but I detest the idea of wearing a beard. Identifying myself is causing enough trouble as it is. Facial hair would only add to my concerns.
Hair grows from your nostrils and ears as you age. It disappears from places where you’d like to keep it, typically the top of your head, but sprouts in new and unusual locations. What is the biological reason? Didn’t my orifices require protection from insects or cold air drafts when I was younger? I am reminded of a man I once knew, a mid-level executive at a large insurance company in Cincinnati. His nose hair merged with his mustache. He allowed his ear hair to grow until he began to resemble a Lhasa Apso. This gentleman seemed to enjoy the attention.
While I’m in here and the door is closed, I’m going to go ahead and shave the back of my head. I’ll leave the front alone and it will look good when I stare at myself in the mirror. The back half will be quite bald; pale and peppered with silvering stubble as the day ends. Anyone, and probably everyone, will laugh at me from behind. But I won’t see them.
This is me, taking off on a tangent: my older brother, who was never conceived or born, would have known exactly what to do in situations such as this one.
(from here, of course)