In the perfect illumination of the strip-light above my shaving-point (Swedish efficiency again), I squint skeptically at my reflection and attend to my facial hair.
My facial hair has fascinated me since the first isolated strands poked out of my chin like tree-clippings through a plastic sack, when I was 14 or 15 (yes, I came somewhat late to the puberty party). I do like the way my appearance can be transformed in so many ways, by mucking about with those tussocks on my phizog.
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