Friday, February 13, 2015



I can recollect quite clearly the last time I looked in the mirror and saw a bearded face. I have never cared for shaving, mostly because I have never liked, often loathed my own face. I have lost jobs for refusing to shave regularly, and I was even threatened with court-martial for the same heinous offense. So, when I arrived in Chicago in the Sixties I joined the Movement and let it go, let it grow. When it was its fullest I began eating at a restaurant called Ham-lette, where the food was basic, plentiful, and cheap. Probably more crowd-drawing were the uniforms of the three waitress, white lacy peek-a-boo blouses, bright red micro-mini skirs, and black fishnet stockings.Cleavage and thigh were electrifying. The men took a long time sipping their coffee, until management posted a sign limiting sittings to twenty-five minutes. Once, during a comparative lull, while eating my usual breakfast of a large bowl of oatmeal and three scrambled eggs, I started talking to one of the girls, using what I supposed was my most seductive rhetoric. I quickly realized that she was looking at me in a most peculiar fashion, as if her usual smile were turning into a sneer. She kept looking away from me, as if she wanted to escape. She was suddenly busy, so I finished my meal and started to leave. On the way out, I went to the john. Glancing in the mirror, I was stunned: my chin whiskers were covered with oatmeal! I have shaved regularly ever since.

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