The world hates my bushy moustache. Having my whiskers so long that they tickle my upper lip has been a staple for my facial hair for as long as I can remember. However, I'm frequently berated by others. They say that it's unkempt, unprofessional, that I look like a porn star, and the like.
Finally, I give in, and I trim my moustache to a fraction of it's former glory, and I only recently find that I'm lonely without it. Oh, how I've grown accustom to it's embrace. The sensation of the way it'd frequently get wet whenever I'd take a drink. I never thought I'd miss it.
Oh, how I'd subconsciously picked up the habit of adjusting it with my lower lip, a custom now obsolete. Yet, I now notice whenever my lip goes up, and is met with absolutely nothing at all, a deep shame rings through my soul. I never thought I'd have to reconcile such a fact.
My, I'd never forget how I'd unknowingly stroke my fingers over it, giving me, atleast in the imaginary sense, a veneer of humility and worldliness. I know learn, it's it's absence, that I was truly enveloped in it's hairy hubris. I have only now been truly humbled.
To think, that such a feat has been accomplished by what would seem, to any man, to be the most ordinary pair of scissors that any kitchen could ever offer. Woe is me, for I must bow my head, to this simple cutting device.