Strategic Grill Alterations

Okay, so I was getting some complaints about the beard. While I, personally, kind of liked it, and had gotten documented compliments from some old guys in the diner ("Looks good on you," one elderly gent was heard to say, while the other said, "Like a handsome Alaskan fisherman." Needless to say, I decided to pick up these men's lunch tabs, for life.), the time just came to trim it back somewhat.

Here was the primary catalyst: Lope. She used to really like it, she said, but then she said she couldn't kiss me anymore. All she got was a faceful of fur. Understandably offputting.

So, even though it was my best bet for getting a role in a Christmas play as a wise man (I got no problem putting flour in there! None at all, Mr. Casting Director!), and even though it was a reasonable defense against the wintry climes that today reached down to 30 below with the windchill, I headed into the bathroom with the trimmer and the shop-vac. (Gotta clean up the little tiny hairs when I'm done, of course.)

And in the end it worked out fine. It's shorter, but still there, though not nearly so red anymore. For some reason it only looked red when it got really long, prompting my own Dear Sweet Mother to say I looked like Yosemite Sam. My sister, who reads a lot of US Weekly, was no big fan either.

Phooey.

Seemed like everywhere I turned (except the diner) I'd encounter resistance to the majestic outcropping. People, my rockin' cool 5-year-old nieces included, would point to old pictures of me and say how much better they liked me without the beard. "Look at this one," they'd say. "You look so handsome. So young. So clean cut." I wanted to point out that I *was* young and clean cut in those pictures -- a mere lad of 29 or so -- but have you ever tried arguing with a 5-year-old?

Oh yeah - and last time I saw Tom, I practically had to flee his house before the dude forcibly shaved my face himself! He just kept looking at me and shaking his head. "Dude... that beard's got to go." I tried to laugh it off, but I knew he was mentally calculating how many steps it would take him to get to the clippers in the bathroom, and how effectively Penny could pin me down in her pregnant state.

Well, fine. I know what you people are after. You just want me to look like those pretty fancy boys on the television set! I'm supposed to fit the Ken-doll mold of every other metrosexual nancypants on channels 3 through 111. My appearance is unacceptable if it doesn't conform to the appearance standards applicable to my specific age group and social class. Whatever.

It's done. I went from this:


To this.


Happy now?