He marched into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Mr. Blade, meet Mr. Face, he thought. Once more the eternal battle of steel versus flesh would be carried out and undoubtedly the flesh army would succumb to another defeat with much blood shed. Why did he have to shave everyday anyway? After all, no one forced women to shave their legs on a daily basis. Kurt cringed at the thought and secretly wished such a law would be put in place. He stared at himself again. His hair was all wild and tangled. He closed one eye and slanted his mouth to one side. “Freeek,” he chuckled.
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

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