The Pursuit of Hirsutery

Dearest Diary,

I must again unfurl the flagon of my pigeony bosom into your waiting and cotton-bonded ears. You know, more than does any other, about the sufferings I have endured at the witty end of Young Siward's coarse-hewn wit and ne'er bending wrist. And likewise, know your leafy pages of the curious longings I emit nightly and secretly into these my dainty pillows of down -- down plucked from geesery both Icelandic and Hungarian -- in honor of the divine Lady MacD. At the crossroads where those two dire concerns converge, there lies a conundrum. And yes, this might be a bigger conundrum than those that fill the Conundrumming Coffer hidden neath my chifferobe. Bigger than "Why makes Father that painful look when I do squeal with delight?" or "Why does Cook have but four fingers on one hand and six on the other?"

You see, my Sweet Sheaf of Mutterings, I have in my possession, a peculiar device given me by my dear Father. When I say "Given," I should perhaps clarify. One morning, I decided to visit Father in his chambers. Cook was delayed in pancake preparation and I had urgent questions about the nature of bee copulation. Befuddled by hunger and curiosity, I forgot entirely Father's usual admonition about keeping a wide berth from the master suite. You can imagine his surprise when I strode in, bold as brass, interrupting him as he did scrape a razor across his manly stubble, laden as it was with lathery foam. "Yowch!", did he cry as the razor fumbled to the vanity with a clatter. I'd no idea Father was so learned and bilingual, as he immediately and loudly spoke such things as I'd ne'er heard. It was in that instant, that I forgot my apiary concerns. For while Father staunched his chin boo-boo with a monogrammed towel -- quite a lot of blood, does my Father have in him -- I found myself transfixed by an object on dear Mother's still undusted dressing table.

It gleamed, positively, this remarkable artifact. A handle of white. A ring of gold, though not a solid ring. More springlike, I suppose you'd say. And there, on its fuselage, written the name of the craftsman who brought it forth. And let me say now, Mister E. Pilady, you do beautiful work.

No sooner had I reached for it, had Father bequeathed the object lovingly and efficiently into my hands, right before he bequeathed me similarly into the chamber hallway. My tum was still empty, my concerns about the placement of stingers still concerned me, but none of that mattered near as much as this veritable Excalibur of personal hygiene held now in my spindly grip.

When I showed Cook my new inanimate charge, the reply was a shriek, followed by a turning away. The poor dear was too thrilled for words, I suppose. From what I've been able to gather, dear Diary, this device is meant to rid one of unsightly foliage, perhaps like the kind that doth sprout and congregate from time to time on my prominent chin.

So seeing as a tool is only worth having if it is also worth using, I have a decision to make. Do I take destiny by the plasticine handle and rid my facial regions of its manifestations? After all, such is the look maintained by my rival, Young Siward. 'Tis true he is a brigand, having not barely enough of the Gainesville strain to keep him walking erect among real men. But there is something unmistakably capital about his denuded chin. Makes him almost aerodynamic.

But what of Mister Macduff, dear Diary? What of him? For he doth ever groom the productive issue of his lower mandible, and did so even on that dreariest of days when he did tie the nuptual knot with the She of my heart's heart's heart's desire. After all, the magnificient Lady MacD found the likes of that beardage attractive enough to breathe her "I do." (Crush my heart, you do ...) So do I dare prune my own attempt at fuzzy rakishness?

If only you could speak, dear Diary mine, you could give me direction, tell me where to stand and what to do! But alas, you remain as quiet and as patient as ever. And so, I will nap the afternoon away, with you at my bedside and Dr. Pilady's Device tucked in with me for a contemplative nuzzle.

Perhaps when I wake, I will know my fate.