Dead
I'm generally, subconsciously, unknowingly concerned with the dead parts of me. I idly tongue overhanging beard hairs throughout the day; pet down my beard to find the ones that don't stand in line with the rest; pick the dirt from under my dead, grown fingernails (I stopped peeling them as a kid after too many cuts turned inward towards fresh, sensitive skin underneath).
When I get home I go to the bathroom. Scissors, razors, and nailclippers all within reach. First the rebellious mustache hairs are fished out [my tongue remembers where they are], then mercilessly truncated by my scissors. And of course there are always more to be found; I trim those too.
A razor heads for the sprigs between my eyebrows threatening to form a unibrow, those tough little hairs that I might've been picking at throughout the day. A quick swoop and they're gone.
On days when I've spent too much time picking dirt from my nails or noticing how good of scratchers my fingers have become, the nailclippers come out — cutting closer to the bed every year — and take my fingers down only to their live, necessary selves. Sometimes there might be a little buildup of dead skin at the edge of my finger's pink, where that white had began, and that too gets picked, cut, and removed.
As your life progresses, you must keep track of, pick, and trim the dead from your decaying body — whether they be skin, keratin, or thoughts. Like a bush, pick and trim, so that new things can continue to grow in their place.