I regret to inform my readership that the finals beard that long preyed upon my face is now deceased. It lived a full life of one month and five days. It will be missed, until it comes back in five months.
The bastard did not go down easy. Son of a bitch took an hour to kill. It took half a dozen razors, a pint of blood, and three of my best men, but it's gone now. Until the next LOCKDOWN.
I mean, I attacked it with a brand new razor, sharp as only a brand new razor can be. And boom, I do a down stroke. And the razor snarls like velcro. And I look at the razor and it's genuinely frightening. It looks like I used a plastic handle to stab a small furry animal. And then I look at myself in the mirror and it's like nothing happened. Not a dent in the beard. It's like pushing glaciers.
Slowly but surely, however, the might of man prevailed. Stroke after tireless stroke, like Paul Bunyan on acid, like Joe Henry on speed, like JFK through co-eds. It took almost an hour, but I cleared that beard like the Amazon rainforest.
And where once stood a lumberjack now stood a clean-shaven man, fifteen years younger, puzzled, staring at this huge pile of shorn hair that could have easily passed for someone's pet. It had actual heft. I felt like I should have donated to kids with cancer or something.
Then I showered. Again, because I was covered in blood and hair, like I'd just fought Cousin Itt with a weed whacker.
And then, when I came back out of the shower, I looked in the mirror and behold, the beard was growing back.
And I sighed and picked up the razor again.
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