I spend a lot of time imagining if my life were a play or a movie or other such egotistical shit. But I think if my life were a film the main motivation of the title character would be hair growth.

That’s not to say I don’t do plenty of other stuff as well, but hair growth seems to be the most active and often, most perplexing pursuit I engage in. For instance, recently I have started to grow a beard. This task, I thought, would be a fairly easy task. Hell, surely its easier than actually remembering to shave. As a kid I just imagined that people sat down, decided to have beards, and then had beards. In immature moments at parties I’d marvel at the beards of others, picturing them just teasing the folicals from their faces with gentle Pan-pipe music. It must be the simple option. But no, having a little jaw shrubbery is like having a Bonsia tree.

I never wondered about which parts of your face you should have to shave to maintain a beard. I still have to shave my neck, in fact its now more important because if I don’t I look like a tramp whose fur has been worn patchy by harsh urban living. If I don’t maintain smooth areas I look as weathered as a donkey on a day time charity advert. Will you donate just three pounds a month to help this noble beast? croons Joanna Lumley as a grainy image of my unkempt face fades to a phone number awaiting your call.

This all may sound ludicrous, or maybe just another example of me flapping about nothing in particular, but it kind of shocks me how little I know about looking after myself. To prove my point I was getting sharp pains in my top lip. I thought it was chapped so I smeared lip salve on ad nausium to relive the pain, only this did nothing but encourage the spread of embarrassingly adolescent spots around my mouth. Turns out, if you don’t trim the hair away from the top lip when you own a moustache, the hairs jab you like tiny rapiers.

Who knew?

Who the fucks job was it to tell me that as a child? If you looks at magazines flogged to teens you see that the ‘girl’ oriented ones are packed with body knowledge, emotional know how, grooming tips and general advice on how to grow the Fuck up and deal with life. Men’s ones are focussed on tits, football and objects pulled out of prisoners arses in the medical wing. This is a major part of the masculine bull shittery that’s propagated during men’s youthful development that encourages sexism. Men are actively taught to not have emotions, not to talk about emotional or medical problems. Zoo magazines closest thing to a agony aunt is Danny Dyer encouraging blokes to set fire to their girl friends pubes. It’s sad. At university I actually had to show my 21 year old house mate how to shave with a razor, his only knowledge on how to do it based on Gillette adverts. “Not that way, you’ll open the pores and get black heads” I yelled at him, his tears wiping the foam from his fuzzy cheeks.

I have no point here, I’m just waffling, but I think that perhaps more ‘male’ orientated literature for teens should have more grooming advice than “get your game face on, then shave it the Fuck off”. Perhaps this would stop be turning into a feral animal when left alone, licking my wounds sustained trying to exfoliate my back.