A close shave


Today I must have reached peak beard, that point at which your phizzog is just too hairy for you to cope with any more. I got my clippers off the shelf, adjusted the guard to 1 ¼ inches, and shaved a fist-sized lump of wiry black hair off my face and into the sink.

I ended up with a pointy beard, so I look like a low budget Musketeer (if he’d quit 18th century France and gone to Singapore to find his way in digital advertising). I also had a neckbeard, the revolting consequence of not shaving for months; hair had grown thick and matted down my neck, concealed by the beard. Now there wasn’t a hedge hanging off my face, there was more to shave off.

It was lucky that I started this journey at 7:30, because it was about half an hour before I’d neatened myself up. I didn’t have a completely bald face (waiting for Destroyer’s first birthday to shock her) but I had seriously lightened the load, and so I could skip to work with a new spring in my step.

Or wonder why I hadn’t shaved my head as well. There’s always more you can get up to with clippers.


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