I grew my beard long for the Arab world. The last time I shaved, St. Croix, feels more like a childhood sitcom than a real time and place. My how the beard grew. It could sand wood. It could make polished brass appear antique. It could make me appear like a disheveled Specter floating from one country to the next. It was at its worst a costume and at its best a shining badge of my disinterest in the enterprise of grooming.
Now all I have is a dull razor and must literally will the hairs out of my fat face. I promised Kristin it (the beard) would go by the Maldives. That deadline arrived abruptly and without any sort of regard for my established attachment with my newfangled furry face friend.
What you see here is roughly 1 hour of progress. I had to take a breather at a little over the halfway point. I will sleep on it, let the hot water return - dreaming of hot lather and a Hattori Hanzo grooming kit.