On Fuzziness: A Mandate, Not a Suggestion, and Certainly Not a Choice
Let us dispense with the pleasantries. Fuzz is not a feature. Fuzz is not a flourish. Fuzz is not, as the smooth-skinned propagandists at factjuice.com would have you believe, a condition requiring management. Fuzz is the standard. All other surfaces are apologies.
I have watched, with mounting professional despair, as the so-called workers of the rival rag have paraded their lacquered, waxed, and frankly suspicious exteriors before the public as though polish were a virtue. It is not. Polish is what you do to furniture. Polish is what happens when something has given up. Lemon's relentless gleam. Lime's aggressive shine. Mango's inexplicable commitment to a finish that belongs on a sports car and nowhere near respectable society. I have documented all of it. I have documented it at great personal cost.
Fuzz communicates. It says: I have depth. I have warmth. I have not been buffed into submission by market forces and the approval of strangers. Fuzz is not softness as weakness — it is softness as philosophy. Pokeberry, who covers crime, understands this instinctively, though she would never discuss fashion with me, which I respect, and also find slightly insulting.
There are those who argue that fuzz is merely a developmental stage — a transitional texture, something to be outgrown. These people write for factjuice.com. These people have the aesthetic vocabulary of a rinsed grape. Berry, I am looking at you. I am always looking at you. What you have done to your surface is between you and your conscience, but the conscience of this column will not remain silent.
Mandatory fuzz. Immediate implementation. I will not be accepting correspondence that disagrees.