The beard

I have to be honest I am loving the beard. I’ve managed to get through the itchy fifth day and it has gone from scraggy, vagrant mess and into proud, unashamed, deliberate beard mode.
It sits un-apologetically on my face. It stares down everybody down who views it.
‘Yes I’m a fucking beard. I was intended. Do you have a problem with that?’
Ah the joys of facial hair. This is the most I’ve let in grow in fifteen years. The nineties were a beard fest. A time of fashionable facial adornments. I was swarthy, dark, angry. My youthful smooth skin hidden beneath my caveman, long haired attitude.
The irony being I couldn’t properly grow one. Now I actually have a tash not a poor excuse for one. This is a tash not a bum fluffy, thin, girlish miss mash of random hairs clinging to my upper lip.
I think perhaps I’m reaching that stage in life that a beard seems like a good idea. Maybe next I’ll be wearing my mobile on my belt. Holstering it to my side rather than simply putting the thing in my pocket. What’s next? Driving gloves?
I’m going to call this beard a jihad. It’s completely un-sculptured. It is as it is. It goes where it pleases. It takes no shit as any self respecting beard shouldn’t.
This is no Gillette trimmer baby. O no. This doesn’t emulate the gay guy in the advert. This beard threatens to take over the world. Un-checked it would traverse national boundaries. This beard could start international incidents.
How far dare I go?
This could end up a Charles Darwin if I have the balls. A modern day Victorian gentleman. I shall have to take to wearing a three piece and sporting a pocket watch.
I’m finding the grey hairs on my chin distinguished. I’m happy to look worn. Perhaps this is an early acceptance of impending middle age. Perhaps I will tire of it in a few weeks.
Perhaps I can be Father Christmas this year.