Close to breaking point

I'm struggling. I'm not sleeping properly, I'm going to bed too late, I'm leaving the office too late at night, and my beard is suddenly itching so much it's a massive effort not to tear at it with my bare hands.

Returning with your shield, not on it

It rained again in Osaka this morning: the bright blue skies yesterday were an anomaly, as if to prove the marathon was something special. I got up at 6 and left as quietly as possible.

Beard Psychosis

Tonight we went to see Butch Bradley at the Take Out Comedy Club. This was the fourth time I've seen him, and the best yet. This time round he was fresh and free from jet-lag, and killed for an hour and a half, while still taking the time to berate us all for sitting in a darkened basement.

Beard trimming

So the beard has continued to grow - it must be about a month since I got too lazy to shave / started to mentally gear myself up for Tokyo. Either way, I figured that instead of shaving it off like I normally would, or alternatively letting it grow out into something ever shaggier and more monstrous, I'd get it trimmed. So off to the Mandarin Oriental I went.
(If you didn't know, this is another of the many palatial hotels scattered liberally across Hong Kong. It has a wonderful buffet at the weekends, a great bar by all accounts ("The Captain's Bar" - well, I'm not a naval man myself, but a boy can dream... how do you separate the men from the boys in the Navy? With a crowbar and judicious application of grease) and so on and so forth.)
The barber's is pretty fine - nice antechamber to sit in while considering one's haircut, and then lots of glass and white tiling to accompany your shearing. However, the beard trim isn't as relaxing as one might hope for. Rather than somebody taking great care to make you relax, it's a bloke with breath that smells of fish, with an electric razor having at your beard. But 15 minutes later I've got a tidy beard rather than an unruly mess, although having a man hold a mirror under your chin to allow you to inspect his handiwork is a little odd - how do you concur that yes, it is still your face, and yes, you are rather disconcerted to be able to see up your nose? Is there something in Debrett's to explain the correct behaviour here?