Tuesday, March 24, 2009
When Atrophy Turns To Haemorrhage
Curse facial hair! Curse it till every last follicle pops from my flesh! Even if it ruins my dinner!
I've had it with shaving.
Somewhere in a slaughterhouse in a part of the world whose citizens have less regard for the wellbeing of animals than the sanctity of their sharp instrument sharpening rituals, there are heaps upon heaps of beheaded birds with necks easier on both the eye and the white shirt collar than my own currently slashed specimen.
Every morning since Friday, I've had to swim for the toothpaste.