He wished the barber’d used the straight razor around his ears. The hair there always seemed to grow twice as fast as the rest. Tail feathers. Now, all he could do was pull at it and wonder if maybe he couldn’t chop it down himself.
Three days later he found himself in the bathroom, a towel wrapped tight around his growing middle, standing before the mostly useless swirling hand wipes on the fogged mirror. His disposable razor tentatively held in his right hand as the left folded down his ear.
If you look close, you can still see the scar.