Beardmares
It’s usually about this point of the beard that the dreams
begin. They all commence the same, I’m dressed in my smalls, standing in front
of the mirror, clippers in hand. Just a quick trim to keep those ginger face
pubes in check. This is Queensland after all, land of 10-month summer. It’s at
this point that it starts to go awry. For some reason I choose beard as the medium
to unleash my inner Pro Hart. I start free styling, carving ‘speed grooves’, mutton
chops, reverse Fu Manchu, chin tapers……Suddenly, hands, shoulders, and chest covered
in offcuts, I experience what alcoholics refer to as “A moment of clarity” *
and I realise what I’m doing. The beard is cactus, totally stuffed, beyond repair,
a complete write off. Only one way to redeem this.
Shave.
The.
Lot.
And start again.
The sight of my bald, freshly shaved chin never fails to
jolt me out of the nightmare. Struck bolt upright in bed, dripping in sweat,
hands to my beard.
Makes me think, I probably wouldn’t be so sweaty if I just
stopped faffing around and actually got around to trimming the beard in the
first place.
*Yeah I stole this line from a movie. It’s a good line from
a good movie.
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