An ode to my fallen leg hairs:
To shave, or not to shave. That is no longer the question.
Whether to suffer in the mind the pain of razor burn or road rash,
And to take the arm hair along with the rest? That is the most minor trouble.
To die; of embarrassment, and to sleep no more near your loved one,
because your leg stubble is super gross.
And without such sleep there is only heartache.
To, to sleep; to sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
for in that sleep, dreams of victory may come. Dreams give us pause,
And make the calamity of sport so long.
Sweet leg hair, soft you were. Fair leg hair, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.