To shave or not to shave, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slice and bite of monotonous shaving,
Or take up the blades and the creams
And let the hair grow: to nick, to cut
No more; and by a nick to say we end
The nubs and the thousand coarse hairs
That legs are heir to? To nick, to cut
To cut, perchance to bleed; aye, there's the rub!
Must give us pause - to put on a bandage.
Who could bear the whips and scorns of shaving,
The pangs of trying to walk again?
To grunt and sweat while shaving
The back of our legs,
The undiscovered country from whose bourne
No razor returns (without leaving behind some scars)
And makes us bear those ills we have,
Then fly to others who are just as sore,
Thus bleaching does make cowards of us all.