According to a well trusted friend of mine, who devotes her life to the perplexing ideologies of superstition, hair will begin to grow in your stomach if you chew and eat your nails to oblivion. I have no nails, so I have a lot to be concerned about. I can’t bear to imagine the thought of coughing up a fur ball, and am certainly not confident enough to ask the street roaming Salem-wannabe cats how to cough some up. Surely my internal hair farm needs a good harvest, right? And, even if it were a good season, I can’t imagine a decent-sized hairball having much street value.
Commodities trader by day and artist extraordinaire by night, Sheiky is a man clouded in mystery with an aversion to being pigeon-holed or stereotyped. Making no mention of his origins, background, or artistic approach, he's one who definitely doesn't like to play things by the book, and who thrives on ambiguity. As Sheiky says of himself, 'he makes a conscious attempt that you don't get a chance to judge him' - and is quite successful in doing so.
