All me must be clean-shaven.
The male barber is the “one who shaves all those, and only those, who do not shave themselves.”
The question is, does the barber shave himself?
– Bertrand Russell
The barbers beard stretches to the ground with the lengths to which we have forgotten human rights entail all humans, while our faces remain clean-shaven from our laws. Yet we exclude out of flawed induction; we blame the barber for this plight as his cutthroat hangs inches from our necks. Every inch his hair grows and each inch he nicks from our faces, as the paradox spirals, weighs upon his mind as his dutifully impossible task. Yet on he cuts, ever closer to the skin. Drowning and pestilence hanging from ages accumulated on his chin sway and drag his resolve down to the floor and the wasted locks he is too busy to sweep. While once his skill was honed to perfection, the ages he has served under hypocrisy and bias savagery has dulled his spirit and worn his razor strop to the leather.
The men of this world walk from the spiraling pole door with lacerations blotting on toilet paper and yet still the laws stand.
Days, years and decades pass at the old man’s cuticles. New generations with bristly beginnings of moustaches and beards line out his door oldest to youngest, each leaving face more bloodied than the last.
A young boy fresh into puberty strolls in eyes bright and heart light for the trial of age to come.
The barber splays the black apron across his slight frame, before pulling the dull blade from gland to gland.
Collapsing of the freshly stained corpse his beard dips into the remnants of his lawful behaviour, as the paradox can no longer continue to spiral.