Hairy till January is supposed to be an event riddled with great fun and hairy faces. It seems for me hairy till January elicits not a hairy face but jokes about how not hairy my face is. Jokes seem to be in abundance lately. Its fine, in their place I would do the same, in fact I have. My facial hair is considered gross if not awful in many intellectual circles (even the unintellectual circles have cast judgement on my baby face).
The hair on my usually handsome mug is very similar to that of a head on a pike. It is ugly and serves as a warning for those men who think they need not shave. They see me approach and think “Yeah, maybe I will shave regularly after all.” Or maybe more like “is that.......” and that as far as they get as they cower in fear of my apparent disregard for social norms. Soon I think people will begin throwing shavers and shaving cream at me.
I am like the neighbour who never mows his grass on time to the point where the residential value decreases and everyone has to sell their houses at bargain prices. Soon the people of my bay will black ball me, leaving me to plot my hairy, rejected revenge.
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