The Beard

Razor glinting in the early morning light, freshly hatched from it's plastic and paper womb of sterility, accompanied by half-sane, half-asleep murmurs of crackhead metaphors.

Check.

Sink of tepid, slightly copper-and-fluoride scented water.

Check that.

Lather, the unscented kind that isn't too cheap, so that you don't get a rash and start itching, but none of that exotically expensive garbage that is way out of your price range, even if you had wanted it, which you don't. No way.

Check that too.

It was the moment of truth.

Henry Foss felt a little bit more than anxious.

His large hand scraped down his cheek, across his mouth, up the other side, relishing in the feel of his shaggy overgrown stubble, not-quite-a-beard. It was like running your fingers over a welcome mat, or a brush, or a short-haired dog, not that he thought of himself as a dog, mind.

It wasn't like he was that attached to his almost-beard, so why was he worrying? It grew back fast enough anyway.

It was the wolf. He was the one causing this inner turmoil.

Remind me again, he seemed to say, why you're even thinking about getting rid of your human-fur?

It had been a comment from Magnus.

Click, click, how she walked that fast in those shoes was something Henry would never understand. Click, click, she entered his lab and stopped.

"I know you work mostly alone, Henry, but that does not prove reason enough to avoid personal grooming, or hygiene."

It was said in jest, but it still made an impression. He couldn't displease his almost-mother, could he?

Then, could he displease his inner wolf, a sacrifice made for Magnus' love of cleanliness?

An inner war raged between his desire to please Magnus, and his fear of the wolf taking control if he caused it any grievances. The razor hovered closer and closer to his face, the broiling pit of worry in his stomach turning into a roaring crescendo as the cold metal and warm plastic brushed against his skin, gentle.

Could he do it? Could he really get rid of it?

Inner battle truly was the correct term to use. A war between his wolf and his inner Magnus.

A decision was made.

He denied himself it's triple blade action now with closer blades for a smoother finish promise, and left the razor in it's desolate half-in-the-packet state.

He'd buy some nice shirts instead.

Maybe Bigfoot would like an early birthday present.