Death of the Manly Facepet

When I was young—somewhere between 6 and 8 years old, I think—my Dad decided he was going to cut my hair to save the family a little money. He got out the clippers and went to work, and generally did a decent job. That is, except for one spot on the back of my head. I don't know if it was that I flinched, or he flinched, or he just didn't know what he was doing, but I ended up with a bald spot on the back of my head about the size of a silver dollar. Mom never let Dad cut my hair again.

Well, I did the same thing to myself this morning. Only it wasn't on the back of my head. It was on my face.

For most of my life, I've been clean-shaven. This is in stark contrast to my two brothers: A, who's had a mustache pretty much continuously since the age of 14, and S, who insists on wearing only the lower half of a goatee. But on a few occasions, I've grown a goatee (top and bottom) as well. The first time I did, it looked like this:



It still looks pretty much like that, except that the lower portion has turned more and more grey as the years have gone on. And that used to bug me a little. But since I turned 40 in May, I've decided I don't really care about the grey any more. I've earned it! So I started growing my goatee again the Monday after my birthday, and I've kept it until now.

Until today, that is. As I was getting ready for work today, I was trimming one side of the beard, and I slipped—took a big old gouge out of it. I didn't realize it at the time, but when I'd rinsed off my face, I could tell that something was wrong. I took a quick inventory of my remaining facial hair, and quickly determined that there was no way to balance it out without making it look ridiculous. So I had two choices: Shave the beard and leave the mustache, or shave it all off. I decided that I'd rather be clean-shaven than look like somebody in a 70's cop show.

So now I'm beardless again. At least my haircut is still intact.