During the time i was owned, i was required, under my Master's orders, to keep my body hair shaved. The shaving process had become almost ritualistic: i would observe the razor's blade glide over my skin removing the hair on its passage and leaving in its trail a different, almost rejuvenated me. Every inch of skin was uncovered and discovered as my Master's property. The ritual helped me transit from my outside public persona to a different intimate slave self. Under the cover of my clothes, my skin was smooth and hairless because so had been instructed by my Owner. The movement was mechanical, automatic, and i felt happy knowing that this decision was out of my hands. I simply had to carry out His orders without worrying about whether or not i wanted my hair gone. This helped me visualise myself as His slave, my body as His property and it gave me a place and a role: a position of safety in the knowledge that i was under His control and command.
With him gone, so has the simplicity of decisions taken for me. I have to ask myself whether i want to continue shaving my legs, pubes, balls, arse... i have to ask myself whether i like it and liking it or not appears insignificant. What matters is that shaving it is a lie: it's like pretending that i'm still his, that he's still around, that things haven't changed. It's like buying my own collar and wearing it around the house. It's a lie. It's make believe.
Things have changed and In my renewed solitude the hairs are growing again as the slave fades. Free will is growing again out of these follicles, like a dark deep-rooted weed that infests me. My desire to let myself go and give myself over to someone else comes to show me once again that Masters come and go and the only person i can truly entrust with ruling over me is me.
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