I think I need to shave.
It is apparent that the once smooth surface of my face is no longer so. I had fooled myself into thinking the problem was fixed. I had just hacked the unwanted substance off my face, and now the madness begins again.
My skin was serene. It was just sitting there minding its own business. But suddenly, far within the depths of my face, a fierce struggle begins. The collection of dead matter we call hair begins ripping its way to the surface. Oh, was I wrong to believe the protective layer of skin could keep me safe. Relentlessly the millions of hairs thrash through my face and burst out in all their glory. Can nothing stop the insanity of it all? A razor is grabbed and scraped across my facial terrain. Each hair is mutilated, being sliced and mangled by the ruthless blade. The oncoming forces are held back but not without casualties. Misguided sweeps have claimed chunks of flesh, and now blood – the life giving substance essential for survival – runs out of my head. But gone is the foreign matter that has been severed from my face.I think I need to shave.