A close shave
Today is not the best of days.
I got up this morning to discover that I am in the pit, weighed down by the Black Dog.
He’s not an infrequent visitor here so there is nothing new. I’m used to him and I just wait around until he fucks off to annoy someone else.
I decided to cut my beard off. I have no idea what the connection is but there must be one as I hadn’t considered the idea before. The mind works in mysterious ways?
Having set up a mirror so that I could at least see what I was doing, I started hacking with the kitchen scissors. But of course I bottled it. If I cut it all off there would be massive consequences.
Going beardless in mid winter is not the best of ideas. My face would freeze for a start not to mention my neck. I know from past experiences that the chill factor is phenomenal, so any kind of drastic shaving should at least be postponed until the summer months.
I also have my reputation to consider. Being a Scruff is hard work as it means always having my hair uncombed and wearing unironed shirts. The creases in my trousers must always be horizontal and not those weird vertical ones on the front and back of each leg. And of course the master stroke is the beard. There is nothing like an unkempt beard wafting in the breeze to finesse that Scruffy look which endears me to so many.
What about the dog? In fact, what about all my pals? Would they recognise me? It’s somewhat doubtful as none of them has ever seen me clean-shaven. I could be attacked by Penny who might think I was some stranger invading her territory..
So that’s when my nerve failed. But having started, I had adopted a somewhat lopsided look and that meant more hacking. So I hacked away and the mound on the floor grew accordingly.
The beard is now considerably shorter and I have chucked the trimmings out the door in case any birds are considering nesting. There must be enough there to serve any flock, to line the nests with a nice white hairy padding.
The Black Dog is still there and now my neck is cold as well.
Maybe tomorrow will be better?
No need to worry about the dog not recognising you – you stink!
No I don’t. I had my annual shower just before Christmas.
What? No picture?
Yes. No picture. If I put one up it would be more than just Russian women writing to me.
Does the combination of Black Dog and the urge to cut your beard mean some unrequited urge for change?
A change would be nice but a change from what? I suppose a holiday would be wecome all right.
The trouble with the Black Dog is that it ambushes you. One minute you are feeling fine, and the next minute it hits you like the flat of a shovel in the face.
The one thing I cling to is that the days are lengthening.
Indeed they are. Also the wind is starting to die down a bit – it has been blowing a gale here for the last couple of days, and that always gets to me.
Whenever I go clean-shaven, the clock goes back twenty years on my physical appearance, which seems like it’d be great but Dorian dislikes it when all those college girls throw themselves at me. She has a point because I never know what they’re talking about when it comes to their music or games or their lives in general. And they have no idea who Frank Sinatra was. That clinches it right there.