It seems when I was little
I used to ask my mom “what is difficult – shaving every day
Or giving birth?”. My mom used to laugh at that.
Seemingly she knew from experience and the lack of it.
I on the other hand, do hard labor in front of the mirror
The stubs are thick as a grove of green bamboo
And even the hairs on the edges of elastic cartilages
Are fertilized by nature and I have to use a trimmer
To make them of little stature. Shaving was my life sentence.
My penance for an inheritance of over-spiked testosterone
The poison that makes hair follicles fall and others grow on the chest
And on the upper back between your shoulders
And that’s what makes me a man. The comb, the razor, the trimmer
After shave and shaving foam, my grooming kit
And the hairs which grow all over. The jungles that insulate me.
And makes me a wookiee or an orangutan sheared by evolution.
And my hair – of the lack of it – is what makes me unique.
Like Darwin, Santa Clause, Che and a host of others
Who were defined by their facial hair. I too will be
Defined as the mad man who refuses to shave every day
And makes a little sprouted undergrowth my own
Signature. I’m not one for the clean shaven. I just don’t care
How I look. I’m just like a Neanderthal, hard around the edges
And soft at the center, like a Rambutttan inside out.
And you need to perforate my shell to find the real me.
A man who doesn’t live by societal rules.
Someone who loved in impunity, not in the way society dictates.
I loved not for the love of love, for the endearing love of
One woman, macerated in skin and heart
Made into a vintage wine.
Like grape must filled into a pear-shaped bottle
And aged for an eternity.