Yogi’s Beard

I have a problem concerning facial hair: it grows. Alright, it wasn’t much of an issue 2 years ago when I sportingly sported a dense goatee in the spirit of appearing macho during metal concerts. The ruse worked fairly well given that no mohawk-toting tattooed male (or female for that matter) considered molesting me. However, there came a time when maintaining the foliage clashed with the preeminent philosophy of my life – minimalism. A lot of care went into snipping those stray strands that refused to align with their kin. The ultra-cool look wasn’t worth the behind-the-scenes-but-in-front-of-the-mirror effort, since I could just as well have made hearts go beeeeeeep with a clean visage (ed: his mom was in concurrence with this piece of contraventional wisdom). And sober I’ve been ever since. The slightest delay in shaving the fungus leads to an itch-fest that might be mistaken for this Italian insult under hairy circumstances. The keratint piles on the years minus the gravitas. It’s a relief to watch the latent toddler emerge after a panel discussion with Gillette al. I dare not use another brand because Gillette’s “world shaving headquarters” are located in Boston (ed’s non-sequitur: why bother with women when a razor is the best a man can get?). What I need is the opposite of a hair transplant (ed: hair cis-plant?): a folly-killer that will shave my soul and render me cheekier than ever. It’s a scientific fact (proof via a GRE analogy) that smooth male skin is to female hands what flames are to moths.