All right, beard. Here’s the deal.
I know that you’re supposed to make me look more sophisticated, and artistic.
I know that your presence sometimes gets me noticed on the street (“Hey, aren’t you the food allergy guy?”).
I even know that women say you make me look handsome, and that on very rare occasions, these women are younger than 60 years old.
But I’m going to level with you: you make me uncomfortable, physically and emotionally. You seriously exacerbate my longstanding Peter Pan complex, and for some weird-ass reason, you make the left side of my face go numb when I’m trying to fall asleep.
And so I’m going to have to let you go. No, don’t look at me like that – you will always have a place inside of me. But inside, beard. For now, it has to be inside.
I hope that you’ll understand. I hope you’ll appreciate that I talked this out with you ahead of time, instead of doing something rash. Speaking of which, did I mention you’re giving me a rash?
This is the way it has to be. Fine, go and tell your friends I abandoned you – I don’t need you. And I certainly don’t need to be saved.
I need to be shaved.