Beard

I’ve long maintained the stance that the reason I never grow facial hair is that I’m incapable of doing so.  Or at least that I’m incapable of growing the sort of facial hair that anyone might want to look at.  However, after a year long silent, one-man boycott of The National Barbers Association, I’ve developed quite the mane of long, luxurious woman hair, which gives a kind of a “loner in the woods” look that I’m growing rather fond of.  And I figured that the addition of a patchy hobo beard would add a little something special to the effect.  Armed with a strong penchant for any goal that requires absolutely no effort on my part, I set about growing my very first beard.

A little over a week into the experiment, I went into a bakery in my neighborhood.  As I waited in line, I decided to peruse the contents of the pastry counter, which required me to bend down next to a child in a stroller.  After a moment, it’s mother looked at me and a concerned expression crossed her face.  She then began to slowly, discreetly pull the stroller in the opposite direction.

It was that moment when I decided that I’m keeping the beard.

-TC