Yours truly is growing a beard. Again. Those who’ve know me many years probably won’t even notice.
It started out like any beard, laziness. And in this case, sensitive skin in mid 90F temperatures.
Then something happened. I began to think about my image. As someone who aims to be a successful author/writer, I realised that in some way, not every part of ME belongs to me. I need a persona, an image, that is acceptable and recognisible to my soon to be legions of faithful readers.
So the beard grows. It’s reached the itchy stage. By the time I get up to BC for winter, it should have reached the warm, comfortable stage.
I am reminded of a small article an unknown writer submitted a few years ago. His theory was that there are a finite numbers of beards in the world. For every beard grown, someone, somewhere shaves one off. I believe. On the farm where I currently stay, a beard has vanished, lost to the sharp edge of yet another razor.