P G. Du Plessis


In the mornings when I lather my cheeks, my chin, my neck and in the end the areas around my lips — to soften a day’s stubble for the shaving ritual — I have to take off my bifocals. I therefore look at my reflection with the unassisted, failing, naked eye. It doesn’t matter. The whole process has become automatic anyway: forehand strokes when you go with the nap, backhand against it; leave the upper lip for last and contemplate the white, woolly moustache for a moment before deciding against growing a permanent one.



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