My beard relentlessly marches on, consuming entire tiny patches of my face one scraggly hair at a time. It is a remorseless growing machine that will not stop until it has magically transformed me from Man Who Cannot Grow A Beard into Man Who Should Not Grow A Beard.
Opinions are split as to whether or not it makes me look better or worse.
When I ordered a drink at the Oakland airport on my way to Seattle, the bartender carded me. I'm nearly double the legal drinking age, so it's been a number of years since I've been carded. I was astonished and wondered whether my inability to grow a beard that actually covers the lower half of my face made me look less mature. Then again, the bartender was bearded, so perhaps he was just welcoming me into the club.
Days later, at a winery in San Juan, I used my credit card that says "See ID" on the back in place of my signature. The cashier complied and asked for my driver's license. She did a quick double-take upon viewing it.
"You look a lot younger in that picture," she announced.
"You obviously don't work for tips," I thought to myself.
Ok, the score was tied at 1 and 1.
Meanwhile, Hank grudgingly admitted that it looks kind of good. It FEELS scratchy, but doesn't look bad she said. 2 to 1, baby!
Today, however, I went into the office and a quiet coworker that I see about once every six months stared at me and said, "You're shaving that off."
2 to 2.
I haven't really investigated whether the ladies find it attractive, so when on my flight back from Seattle I found myself next to two young and attractive ladies, the opportunity seemed to present itself.
A college kid on the far side of me struck up a conversation with the ladies, and found out that they had been in town for an Ultimate Frisbee tournament. College Boy also sprouted some facial growth, but his looked like the "I'm having too much fun to bother shaving" beard as opposed to my "I'm proving a point here" beard.
I placed my eyebrows into their most debonair position and flashed my least (but still partially) creepy smile. I then leaned forward, interrupting the frisbee conversation between College Boy and the ladies.
"I just spent the weekend playing frisbee golf with a bunch of drunk old guys," I interjected suavely, "And I don't mean to brag, but I came in second to last, sooooo, if you need any tips or anything, I'm here in..."
I glanced up at the seat row number.
I nodded sexily and leaned back in my seat.
One of the ladies thanked me with her best Grandpa Smells Funny smile while the other one took pity on me and agreed that frisbee golf really is best played drunk.
I'm thinking that the beard loses 2-3, but at least I cock blocked College Boy.