The rays of the morning sun seeped into the room through a small gap between the curtains.
Twain gently got off the bed before turning around to glance at his sleeping wife. He then donned on his pajamas and left the room quietly. He turned on the tap and squeezed a lot of toothpaste over his toothbrush. He then put his neatly folded bath towel next to the sink. He was all prepared to wash his face and brush his teeth so as to get refreshed for the new day.
The moment he raised his head, however, he became dumbstruck. The man he saw in the mirror was foreign to him. He looked like someone who hadn't slept in ages. The crisscross wrinkles on his face seemed as if they had been engraved into his face with a knife, and his eyes were bloodshot as well. However, what he found most unsightly wasn't his wrinkles or his bloodshot eyes but the clump of dishevelled white hair on top of his head.
