The Beard of Woe

Recently I have been unwell, and unable to shave because of this unwellness. So, whilst lurking in the catacombs of my house wearing a white mask and causing chandeliers to drop unexpectedly, I had grown a beard. For a generally non-hairy face this is quite an arduous process. It's like a contest in which you have to spend every waking hour with someone standing next to you, prodding you and throwing itching powder in your face. If you succeed in neither clawing your face off or killing your annoying companion, you win your health back. My face had been relentlessly pushing dead protein-sticks through my follicles like brie through a lazy cheese-grater, hoping in vain that I will take the hint and slice them off. I didn't.

The trouble is, after a while I found I actually quite liked it. Maybe a watershed moment crept by lacking the common decency to make itself known. All of a sudden, it stopped itching. I ceased clawing at my face like a man convinced a more attractive one lies beneath the unattractive layer of putty currently in place. But could I be a beardy? I really didn't know. On the positive side I enjoyed running my fingers through the chin whiskers when wishing to appear wise. On the negative side, two hours after dinner I'd go to the bathroom and whilst washing my hands would notice a sweetcorn kernal nestling amoungst the foliage of my upper lip like a tiny yellow woodsman, or less pleasantly, a gangrenous Chesney Hawks mole. I remember an episode of 'Police Squad' where a large man ('Al', who's so tall his head appears off-screen) is told he has food stuck to his face. He dislodges it and a chicken leg hits the desk. If I kept my face-fuzz, would that be me? Would a polite colleague mention a little lunch had remained and was currently lurking in my cheek-Sherwood like one of Robin's merry men, would I in turn dislodge it and suffer the shame of an eight-foot lasagne farting from my face as if from a furry tv-dinner dispenser? I don't think I could survive that embarrassment, if for no other reason than it being difficult to appear wise whilst wiping bechamel sauce from my keyboard.

So, I was forced to choose. A sage's beard or dinners large enough to host music festivals that rival Glastonbury. A tough choice, but one my razor was all to glad to resolve for me.

Oh, and that's dinner. Parmesan?