When you’ve got more than a £100 of other people’s money riding on you having a shave, you’d better reach for the razor. Last night, it was with significant trepidation that I lathered up in order to kick off Movember in style.
Not since the tender age of 22 had I exposed my pasty jowls to the elements. I like being hairy, it means a lot to me. In the masculinity stakes, it’s pretty much the only weapon in my arsenal.
On arriving at the office this morning, the reactions ranged from “Oh you look quite good” to “God, you look young”. I took them in the spirit in which they were intended. All of the comments were kicked into touch by my girlfriend’s reflection, some 24 hours after actually shaving: “You know, it makes you look a bit chubby.”
You have to have a much fun as you can with these occasions, don’t you? Here I am, about to audition for a Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute act.
One thing I was grateful for was that nobody mentioned the fact that, as I’m so out of practice, I’d clearly cut myself to ribbons. As such I won’t continue reacquainting myself with my bladed friend until tomorrow evening at the earliest.
I’m free of facial hair and for some inexplicable reason spots have broken out on my forehead. The gods of male grooming as toying with me. I am 16 once again.
So far this has hurt. In the name of all that is good and holy, please donate. Thank you.
