Not only did I write the most depressing poem of my career today, I also had to shave.
I can see my face. I look like a baby and it's SO COLD!
As promised, here are the final stages:
"L'artiste Fou" (That's not a Snuggie. It's a towel. Much more classy.)
"The Good Old Boy"
"The Naked" (Ok, ok, I was wearing flip-flops)
It was a good run and I'm not sad it's over; I'm happy it happened. But there's one especially beautiful thing about facial hair: when you wake up in the morning, it's always there. And that's all you really need.
Huzzah.
1 comments:
I've started a candlelight vigil. The facial rug will be missed. It's a good thing you have these pictures and that the memory will be immortalized through the power of the camera.
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