A week without shaving, the Grizzle no longer pricks, but is rather soft to the touch.
Crisp suit pants and shirt, cuffs rolled to the elbow. A Uniform to conform. Grizzle is out of place amongst such attire.
Uniform does not see the Grizzle. Or perhaps it does, yet intentionally does not acknowledge.
It instead looks in the eye of the individual, and spits in his face.
It laughs at his hopes, dreams and aspirations, as if they were childish folly.
It seeks to discredit anything and everything which is not it.
It is for those who wish to hide. It provides cover for the weak.
It is an abomination to the soul.
The grizzle feels right. It is my uniform. And I wear it with pride.
Call me a bum, if you will.
I see things the other way around.