I believe I must be getting a bit slack and things are slipping somewhat. This morning I found myself in a debate with myself about why I should bother to shave myself since I am not required by anyone else other than my wife to be presentable. I must attend to this unwarranted relapse in my personal care regime.
I have never needed to shave much as it happens. Nothing much grows there. The MK1 marker gene seems to have expressed its gingery and magnificent curliness more assertively elsewhere which never gets even a glimpse of a razor blade. On the chin, pickings are sparse. My dear father, never one to be direct and rarely subtle if believed that obtuse could be deployed more effectively, exclaimed once, on the occasion at age 17 when I announced my springtime intention to add ‘bearded’ to my hippy credentials, (along with yellow suede shoes, tartan trousers and a Bob Dylan style corduroy cap) “if you tried to grow a beard by Christmas there would be more hairs on the roast pork!”
A memory which has interesting social history aspects to it. In those days we could be sure that the meat at our festive board was probably alive and grubbing around in it’s filthy sty snuffling for carrot peelings amongst bedding and it’s own excrement not far from where we lived on the edge of town just a few days before. It would have been acquired as a lump wrapped in white paper from our butcher Mr. Nichols completely unshaven. It was not at all uncommon to get a piece of crackling with both hairs and a nipple! Those were the days.
In other updates for today, Alexa had a funny turn. I asked her where my stuff was and with no response, flashing lights or anything, I said to my wife “Alexa has the virus and is dead I think” to which my ever ready with a witty repost bosom buddy replied “coughed it 19 then”.