I am cultivating follicle growth between my nose and my lips. It’s a growth that should stand proud and give the owner a true sense of being all things ‘man’. It should allow me to wear a wax jacket, smoke the finest Briar pipe, consume Highland Park single malt like it were water, and grant me the ability to captivate all humans with tales of man. Alas, my lip garden does none of this, instead it instills a complex of inferiority. The nature of its sparse cover and undecided colour way explains these feelings. Upper lip can still be viewed through the growth, mocking its attempt at full coverage. The distinctly soft foliage is both black and blonde and the more it grows, the more orange takes hold. I yearn for the power of full cover, of uniform colour, of eye watering coarseness. For the remainder of the month, nurturing the garden is key. At night Gustav Holst – The Planets – Mars: Bringer Of War will play on repeat whilst daytime will be filled with reading Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls. Man level growth will be achieved, mark my man words.
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