I often wonder.
At times, my wonder wanders toward the undeniable peculiarity that is my beard. Why do I care about it? I might as easily just cut it off, and for all the social lubrication that doing so would afford me, a clean shave would undoubtedly find me on the "net gain" side of the energy ledger. It's not procrastination, laziness, apathy, or fetish that keeps it firmly attached to my chin and jowl, either; I am possessed of some sort of intuitive understanding that my beard is more than simply a vestigial biological element of my face, and I can't shake it - but I also don't yet understand it. Most paragraphs abutting any arbitrary anecdote of mine are destined to arrive at similar ends on the way to their beginning, I suppose. Why should the truth about my beard be any different?
Perhaps hair is a sentient organism with its own life goals, and I am tenuously attuned to the tune of its gentle Zen.
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