Yesterday evening I decided to remove my beard. Consequently, for first time in many months I’m smooth of visage whilst I wander the avenues and alleyways of Leeds 15….. An unremarkable feat, admittedly, but if you bear with me I’ll explain why I felt moved to mention it.
Incidentally, when relaying I’ve removed my beard I’m referring to shaving hair follicles from my ruddied face. Not that I’d taken the decision to rid myself of a false beard that had been a long standing companion of my chin.
Having the capability to grow a short beard, unless I ever secure a part in ‘ZZ Top – The Musical’ (if there’s such a production), my Bruce Forsyth-esque jawline is unlikely to ever adorn a false beard.
As much as I wanted a change of facial aesthetics, I nearly backed out of the move. My initial thoughts concluding I’d miss my long standing facial hair. After all, the hair had been part of my anatomy for over a year and we’d (quite literally) grown attached.
However on further reflection I realised that, as I regularly trimmed my hirsute visage with a grade two or three clipper setting, in reality I was being unnecessarily sentimental.
After all, like the Trigger’s broom paradox, the hair follicles I was removing weren’t the original strands that manifested themselves in summer 2017. Those initial shavings having long been consigned to the great barbers bin in the sky.
One bonus of being shorn of facial hair was, according to a friend, I looked ten years younger. Although, another friend said I looked ten years older than my actually age with the beard, so it’s questionable whether I’ve secured any real net gain with the aging process.
My wife, who opined my beard made me look really aggresive, seems contented I’m now bereft of bristles. I don’t subscribe to her thoughts they made me look a nutter, but as the Garforth Incorrect Adage Society often say “The cat can look at the cream, can’t it?!”
My mum, a rabid opposer of beards, is also delighted at my decision to revert to a smooth visage. No longer brandishing me with the ‘scruffy bleeder’ label she’s tarnished me with for the last eighteen months.
Mater’s dislike of beards so strong she believes any professional sportsman adorning facial hair shouldn’t be selected for their team until they’ve removed the offending follicles. Bizarrely, she doesn’t advocate this stringent restriction of work practises for any other profession than those in the sporting field.
Changing the topic, this morning I was confronted by an event that perhaps indicates my luck maybe turning for the better. A pleasingly uncommon incident which took place while storing last night’s casserole leftovers.
This event taking place while transferring the leftover stew from the cooking pot. The unusually rare scene being that of finding a lid for the empty Tupperware container in which I was going to freeze the stews remnants..
An unexpected scenerio to be confronted with – After all, these sealable bowl covers are ordinarily as elusive to find as that missing sock in the washing machine.
A pleasing and surprising outcome to a situation I’d expected to take up many minutes of my precious time seeking the matching lid amongst the plethora of these invaluable containers we own.
Thankfully, though, I didn’t have to gut the kitchen cupboards to find the dishes cover; subsequently, the job of freezing culinary leftovers took a matter of minutes.
Right, while my luck’s in I’m off to see if I can find that other sock.