December 23rd 2019

Today I had a barber shave my beard for the first time in my life. For some reason it’s taken me 26 years to allow that to happen — not that it would’ve even been an option ten years ago because I’ve only actually had a beard for like five years, but you know what I mean.

Until this point I’ve always been weirdly anxious about it. It kinda scared me. Not scared in a Demon Barber of Fleet Street kinda way, just in a… I dunno… anxiety kinda way. Also I have this weird thing about not liking people touching my face.

And so I’ve always only ever shaved my beard myself. And then I end up not shaving it for too long and looking homeless and bedraggled.

Today though, that changed. I asked the man at work with the strongest beard where he gets his done, and he called up his mate Alan and told Alan to expect me. I walked through Gloucester to Alan’s shop, and he sorted me out:

In 26 years my beard has never looked that fresh (I did the years thing again). It was actually quite relaxing, and the sharpness of his cut-throat blade was oddly satisfying.

Until tomorrow, I should have done this ages ago.


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