Sam stared at himself in the mirror. He was seriously considering getting rid of the goatee.
But then it occurred to him that he didn’t know if he was allowed to get rid of it. He would have to re-read his contract. Or, better yet, have Wendy re-read it. After all, she was his lawyer–he paid her to do stuff like that.
He stared some more, stroking his chin. Sam never even really liked the goatee, yet he knew that as far as the public and his employers were concerned, he wouldn’t be “him” without it. And the hair–he hated the long wavy hair. If it were up to him he’d shave the goatee AND his head and just be done with it.
But that was the thing–it wasn’t up to him. Sure, he was famous–nationally, probably even internationally known–and he made good money, all that stuff. But being an icon kind of sucked sometimes. Having to get permission to shave or cut your hair? What kind of a life was that?
He wondered if Mr. T ever got sick of the mohawk, or if Robert Smith ever tired of the teased hair, mascara, and lipstick. He wondered if maybe his employers would let him shave and cut his hair and just wear a wig and fake goatee for his photo shoots and public appearances. Then he remembered how weird they got that one time he merely suggested that maybe he could possibly sometimes not always wear those stupid striped pants and maybe just wear some nice solid navy blue Dockers instead, and how they made vague threats about taking legal action if he dared to change his look without their permission, and Sam realized shaving and cutting his hair was probably a long shot.
His shoulders sunk as he placed his razor back inside the medicine cabinet. He had to go give Wendy a call.