The clouds are dark and tracing their paths across the sky from the South-West. A faint sun is rising and the coffee is warm and comforting. The balcony is cozy.
Switch scene: My bathroom.
I don’t looking myself in the mirror. But my beard disagrees. “Look at me, I am magnificent”, it shouts back with such force that if pitted against Arnab Goswami in a debate, it’ll come out on top.
I tend to agree.
It’s black. And it’s white in the right places. Women dig it. It also hides some teenage trauma pretty well.
Anyway, it needs a clean up and trim today. The Gillette razor glides across the edges. I wonder how five blades feel. The blade reaches that precise spot where the beard meets the moustache. Delicate maneuvering required at this point.
“Bharaaath, why are there three bottles of vodka in the fridge next to the dahi?”
The razor ever so slightly slips from my hand and true to Gillete’s marketing spiel it does a brilliant job of lopping everything, I mean, everything in its path.
My beard. My chick magnet. My face resembles the scene from Asterix’s Mansions of the Gods where a patch has been cleared from the forest for a block of flats for the Romans.
Anyway, this is the story of how I lost my beard.
Not every exciting. But still better a better love story all Twilight novels put together.