Whiskers

Unintended as it may be, I now find myself with enough scruff on my chin and cheeks for it possibly to be called a beard. I didn't feel like shaving on Friday. The same went for Saturday. Why bother on Sunday? I planned to shave it on Monday, but again, I couldn't find the motivation to mess with the razor and shaving cream. Today it was going to be gone, but with the temperature dropping into the low twenties and headed lower, I figured it was a little extra protection against the cold.

If anything, the temporary facial hair is a way of mixing up how I look, even so I seem a little less familiar to myself in the mirror. It's not like I can do anything with my hair to change things up. As easily as it grows on my face, it just as fervently is receding atop my head. Can't say I'm thrilled about it, but what am I gonna do? (The answer: nothing. When it's gone, it's gone.)

The thing is, I'm not necessarily crazy about the beard. It comes in well enough, except the bristles tend to be lighter in color than my dark brown hair. Some small spots are even *gasp* gray. (Seriously, cut it out nature. I'm not that old yet, and you've already taken enough too soon.) I have noticed that if I look at this nascent beard when the light isn't shining on it, it appears darker, so I don't know what exactly is going on.

At five days' growth, going on six, the beard is on the verge of looking scuzzy and becoming an irritation to me. Not yet, but close. There is something strangely appealing about letting it grow as a statement of disaffection, however. Having it is a little like wearing a mask too.

When I shave it off, which will be soon enough, the same old me will look brand new again...and probably sport a nick or two from shearing it.

And no, you're not getting a picture.