I had become a sort of confidant to him, for I knew the secret that he hid under his skin, the sprout of hair that grew like a flower in the summer, the shadows that emerged and crissed-crossed against his pale complexion. It was as if a beautiful garden waited beyond his jaw, yet he would not unleash it, would not allow the flowers to be seen by the golden sun.
Only I knew what he was hiding beneath the soil, the bounty of beauty that lustered under the surface of his skin. I knew I would miss that veiny vessel of an arm, ribboned with blue-ice picking me up, and stroking me against his rigid jawline, but I knew the the greater loss weighed much more: the risk of mankind never seeing the art within his facial hair, and never feeling the intense pleasure that it raptured.
Do not think of me as a hero or a savior because I made a sacrifice. I salvaged my own life for his beauty, and am proud to have done so. My life purpose was not to shave his hair, but quite the opposite: to forbid it. I sacrificed my life to protect his hair, I ensured its development and that it would be shared with the world.
I lay here on the cold, white, porcelain sink, wrapped in a blanket of dust. It has been weeks since I have felt his fingers, and I am becoming dull as I lay here dying. But do not fret, for I die in peace, as I know the buds have been unleashed, the flowers are growing, and the world is a better place because of the facial hair that I am responsible for sustaining.