I stand in front of the mirror. Naked. That is with the exception of the towel wrapped around my waist. I have just emerged from the shower. The room is layered in steam. My reflection is blurred beyond any form of recognition. Before I begin my daily grooming I need to see myself. Because that’s just the way we do it here on Earth.

I grad a facecloth and wipe down the mirror. There I am. Pale. Skinny. Flabby. Before I begin to floss I notice a hair on my chest. It is thick and wire like. Different from the rest of the hairs on my chest, which are thin and blonde. It is about an inch above my left nipple and I cannot stand it.

The only problem is it is very close to a mole. My mother always told me not to pluck hair growing from moles. I have never checked this with a professional (my mother is far from a doctor), however, I think I have heard this from several other sources: “If you pluck hair growing out of a mole it can cause the mole to become cancerous.”

I do not call a doctor to find out how valid this statement is. I simply convince myself, without thorough investigation, that the hair is growing next to the mole and is not part of it. With that I pluck it.

What was I hoping to achieve? That by convincing myself that it was not in the mole, God would take pity on me. “Well, Malcolm did pluck a hair from a mole but he thought it was growing next to it. Poor boy I guess under these circumstances I won’t give him cancer.”

Why would I potentially risk my life on such a foolish thing? It was a little hair. I could have looked properly at it. Maybe it was safe to pluck. I could have consulted someone first. The info I need is probably on Wikipeida. But instead I ignored everything and blindly decided to hope for the best. That is retarded.