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A closer shave

“Testosterone lawsuit – You are owed money for your Testosterone related injury…”

(From my email spam folder, about twice a day)

I may have started a new fashion in beards. It happened, I suppose, as a result of my Testosterone related injury.

Testosterone is, as you know full well, the all-purpose male hormone that makes men muscular, angry all the time, follow the most inept and unsuccessful football teams until death, drive too fast, go bald at 35, fancy completely unattainable and artificially enhanced women, hide pornographic magazines in the garden and grow successively odder styles of beard, one after another, wondering hopelessly if we look more fanciable with or without, until we simply give up in despair and stop putting on clean underwear.

Some time ago, I was so broke that I realised I could no longer afford the £11.50 it was now costing every month to get my thinning hair cut and my beard trimmed (£2.50 extra). So I bought one of those sheep-clipper devices and started to do it myself. It has saved a small fortune over the past year, and now I have learned how to cope with the weird little tufts that used to spring out of the sides of my oddly-shaped cranium and refuse to lie down, I am not dissatisfied with the results. (Notice the adroit, if rather overdone, use of the double-negative throughout this, my 330th Post.)

Nor were the results unpleasing, giving me that all-over groomed look, almost dare I say sleek, which, had I any clothes, or a nicer car, might lead women of a certain age and income distribution to think me not unprepossessing, from a certain angle, in an uncertain light.

Anyway, this morning I was casually running a Number One over the general chin area, noting in passing that my beard these days seems to have become felted, being composed of a compacted and intractable solid mass of white fluff rather than the black bragadoccio bristles of yore, when the plastic comb attachment that maintains the height of the cut suddenly popped off and skittered loudly across the tiled floor of the bathroom.

Before I realised what had happened, of an instant the now-unprotected cutting blade had mown a swathe like a crop circle across the jutting point of my manly chin, leaving a bare patch with a sort of pillow of felted white fluff plumped out on either side.

I think the handy Elizabethan word ‘poltroon’ best describes my appearance.

Which is unfortunate, as I have a meeting to attend an hour from now. And owing to my lack of Testosterone, a deficit clearly evident from the rest of my jawline, that is scantily covered in a wispy cirrhus of isolated soft white hairs; my feminine, unmuscled arms, my hairless old legs, my sagging man-boobs, soft underbelly and developing attachment to white wine, it may be some time before the damage can be undone.

My legal team is consequently suing the manufacturers of the faulty device for more than all the money that exists in the world, for the egregious damage done to my person and reputation throughout the known Universe.

I am also thinking of taking the NHS to the cleaners. This is because I have been waiting in vain for the clinic to contact me about the tests I had done a month ago, in pursuit of a professional medical opinion relating to symptoms I assumed would be indicative of my sinking Testosterone level, lack of affect, unruly bladder, habit of wandering around in the road outside shouting at drivers ignoring the 30 mph limit, etc., etc.

Had I known that I was becoming an old lady, would I have kept the beard?

I think not.

Nor would I have suffered the Testosterone related injury for which I am now, I am being told by the webthing twice a day, owed substantial sums in compensation.

I rest my case.

 

 

 

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