Oh why. With the money I don't have, do I seek the services of man who uses scissors for a living?
Why do I feel that is very individual with the very same occupation might carry some unique spark; like any other human with the competency to use his ears and LISTEN.
For you see, my contentedness was ubiquitous in the area concerning my facial hair until...
The aforementioned man took no bearing over what I had requested; and hack hack hack went my happiness.
No matter how many times I hear: "It'll grow back" does it soften the blow that I had a thick beard and now I have a thin one.
Come friendly bombs no, but come bombs full of metaphysical petrol and pipe bombs made of words sir, I am writing a complaint.
Whilst you will look at my words written down maybe ten minutes, I will have to endure the sight of my own happiness devoured by your blades for at very least, four to six weeks.
I also add my own personal venom, in that I might have a happy bearded Christmas - I hope you do not.
Instead I hope you are victim to your own faulty ears and don't hear oncoming traffic coming down the road and it hits you on Christmas Eve.
I hope that your Christmas is full of sorrow, despair and injury.