There were whiskers on the sink, on the back part for a rinse cup or soap. Five minutes before guests arrived on Christmas Eve, I trimmed my fledgling moustache—a thing I’m growing specifically so I don’t resemble Steve Bannon, the alt-right jackass—and I leaned over the sink to see into the mirror better. I usually don’t leave whiskers that part of the sink. Now I do, all because of Donald Trump. Continue reading
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