Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and let you know I might be writing on here again. If you want me to. You want me to, right? Please say so.

Do you want me to write on this blog?

[ ] yes
[ ] no

Right now I just feel a draft. My chin pants fell down, and I am naked. And I am in pain because I didn’t have the figurative machete to take down these bamboo shoots. It reminded me of my first job as a fifteen year old when my neighbor asked me to come over and mow his lawn for $20. What he should have said was, “Hey will you come over and mow my knee-high lawn filled with dog crap.” Every few seconds the lawn mower would stall, and it would smell like poo. It was like that only with my razor. I’d cruise in full speed at the patch and it would just slide over and stop cutting. I think I chopped a little too close in certain areas as well. It feels like burning.

I’ve also found myself reaching for the ghost of past chin hair. I try to stroke the patch of hair like a little puppy, but it is gone. I weep when I feel the smooth burning skin.

So the real question is, why do this? Well, I have a portfolio review tomorrow and supposedly it makes me look more professional. Yeah, like whatever. At least tomorrow is the last day of school so I can’t start my summer job of growing it back.

I’ve never been a big fan of shaving which was always a problem because facial hair was banned without exception in the student body of my high school. If you came to class with a five o’clock shadow, you could be certain of a trip to the office where you would encounter a reprimanding and brutal punishment in the form of forced shaving with a dull, disposable Bic razor. I never personally suffered this ignominy, but the possibility was widely known.

In vengeful rebellion, upon graduation I started growing facial hair. I wasn’t so much going for any specific look; rather, I just relished being able to get away with an unkempt exterior. I, of course, had to deal with the constant chiding of my dad who would say “clever” things such as, “Steve, did your razor break?” or “Steve, you look like the business end of a great ape!” Ok, maybe not that last one, but definitely the first. After growing tired of the novelty of meager facial hair, I set about the task of growing an honest-to-goodness beard…a beard that served me well (except for with the ladies and people who have class) and stayed with me for quite a while.

So I shaved and I’m still not really sure what to think of it all. As far as public opinion, I think the general line is drawn with guys in favor of the facial hair and girls either in favor of the clean-shaven look or just indifferent. Personally, I don’t think I can go wrong with shootin’ to please the ladies, but you know…handsomeness can be a curse. I mean how will I afford to replace all the shirts that girls keep ripping off of me as they scramble to get a piece of the newly unveiled “El Guapo” version of Steve? I do have another problem with shaving, which is a medical problem. Allow me to explain:

I apparently have the most sensitive skin in the world and when I shaved my beard off, I got wicked razor burn. Somehow it got infected and resulted in the abnormal swelling of my lymph nodes…I now have a freakish nodule protruding from the right side of my neck. I thought I was growing another person (reproduction by the asexual budding method…like a sponge) that would soon emerge from my neck, kill me, assume my identity, and then give me a bad name by telling people that he likes Abba…wait, I like Abba.

Well ladies, I hope you’re happy. Now, thanks to shaving, I’m on antibiotics, I have a freakish protrusion on my neck, I have constant facial irritation, and, lastly, I can’t keep myself in shirts. I ask you, how did Superman do it?