Losing the beard

Don't get me wrong, I know where it is...or atleast I know where it went. That's right, the beard is off down to toilet town and my chin can see daylight once more. It never ceases to fascinate me when I shave. I always get the weirdest looks of shock and amazement. It's like people forget what you look like a month or so down the line. The best ones are the ones that recognise you, but can't quite place what's different. The look of puzzlement and relief, genius.

Why do I do things this way? I tell myself that it's lazyness. It's such a chore to hack at your face with a razor and hope for the best. Maybe that is the truth. Maybe I could be hiding behind the mask. Maybe I'm just preparing for the responses mentioned in the above paragraph. I learned long ago not to try and second guess my subconscious. That guy's a sneaky old fox and as unpredictable as a shopping trolley with four wonky wheels. You never know what he has planned until it's too late.

So, yeah, roll up, roll up. Get a butchers at the face while you still can, tickets are available at the box office.