Back in 1971 I had a rather nasty dose of glandular fever.
When I say nasty, I mean nasty. I was bedridden and incapacitated for three weeks or so. As a result of the incapacity, I didn’t shave, so by the time I was back on my feet, I had a reasonably respectable beard. Just for the hell of it, I decided to leave it, and there it has remained ever since.
Actually, that’s not true. When our K8 was a nipper, I shaved it off and just left a moustache, but the result frightened the child so I had to grow it back again.
I like my beard for two reasons.
The first, as I discovered during my clean-shaven experiment is that it keeps me nice and warm. The second is that it is nice not to have to worry about shaving every day. All it takes is a slash with the scissors a few times a year.
Lately, out of pure curiosity I have been tempted to have another blast at being clean shaven, but Herself doesn’t like the idea. I don’t know why, but she can be a little strange at times. So it looks like it shall remain.
Like myself, it has grown old and grey in the past forty years since it first sprouted. It is the greyest part of me now, though the rest of my hair is slowly catching up. And the hat does match the handbag, if you are interested.
I am really quite attached to it now, as anyone who witnesses the grandchildren trying to swing out of it will testify. I think I’ll resign myself to being somewhat hairy for the rest of my days.
It’s a fucking bitch when jam or marmalade gets stuck in it though…..