Time Entangled In My Beard

As a youth, I shaved sporadically and without significance at rough yearly intervals. The act I viewed as a kind of rebirth, a new beginning. A momentarily glimpse at the face I'd hidden beneath my homegrown mask. I saw it as a recurring point on a wheel outside of time. At a certain age I began the shave each day, and time became for me entangled in my beard, as if by my ever-thinner slicing of the time-like strands I might delay, or in fact defer forever, the inevitable end of hair/time.