You are in hot water. It pours down around you, sticking to your naked skin and hair. Your fingers reach for your face and report back that there is hair attempting to grow all over! An evolutionary side effect, it’s purpose lost to time, it continues to grow against modern custom and whatever necessity it once served. Some soap is spread over your face like propaganda leaflets swirling in the breeze, coating the warzone before the massacre of blood and screaming.
A razor is deployed to deliver bombing runs of death from above to the errant follicles who persist in their struggle to grow facial hair. With your free hand, your finger tips quickly scan for stubble, and like a laser painting a target your fingers tell the razor where to swipe and harvest the fallen, lying scattered against your face like a field of decapitated prairie dogs, killed for simply sticking their head out. Occasionally you nick yourself and blood pours from a future scar. This is repeated until the advance scouting report from your finger tips conclude that there are no more enemy insurgents, even along the border.
So you dry off and go about your day, simply forgetting all about the horrible traumatic self-inflicted body modification ritual. And that night, while you sleep, your face continues on unimpeded, trying to turn you into a terrorist with a beard.
