He shaved twice a day. Hated the blue shadow that cast itself on his cheeks, jawline, and chin a few hours after shaving. The look of stubble disgusted him. There was a time when all men who could, shaved. But that was a different time. Nowadays people walked around with all forms of
facial hair
. Nice bushy
beard
s, clean cut lines, and patchy beards that looked like
pubic hair
taped onto their face.
He had a strange psycho sensory condition where he would associate that look of not well groomed facial hair with the smell of shit. One day he imagined shit being on someone's face instead of hair, and he couldn't stop smelling it whenever he saw somebody with a patchy beard. Including himself.
During his time off, he had not shaved for months. And the smell finally went away. Although he would instead smell literal shit, because people at the encampment would shit there sometimes. But that was okay. He'd rather smell real shit than imagined shit.
"Why you making that face?" Denver would ask.
"Nothing. I just. I'm fucked up, man."
"Don't say that Blue. Or you know what? Fuck it. We're all fucked up man. Look at us." Denver pointed to the tents and shopping carts filled to the brim with gear. "We're here for a reason aren't we?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
"Someone who knows what the hell they're doing wouldn't end up here."
"You mean like famous, successful people?"
Denver thought about that for a second. "Nah they probably fucked up too. Just in their own ways."