Several months ago, Dixie noted that when each of our children was born I had some kind of weird hair going on: with Madeline I had a jazz goatee and with Luke my hair was long. What, she asked, are you going to have this time? Maybe, said I, I’ll grow a beard. And that’s exactly what I did.
The baby is now born, so the beard comes off. For your viewing pleasure, I present, The Beard: A Shaving Pictorial:
The old-school. I think it’s called an “Imperial moustache”. To keep a moustache like this, I’d need a stuffy name like Lord George Beauchamps, Earl of Sussex or something along those lines:
The moustache. When Madeline saw this moustache, she said I looked like “a person who serves food”—it seemed like a wonderfully generic association for her to make, but I guess she got the idea from The Little Mermaid or something. I think there is something distinctly Clouseau-ish about my moustache; most of you, however, will think there is something distinctly pervert-ish about it:
I also took a picture of me and my moustache with Olivia, but it’s too disturbing to post.
I liked the beard—it looked good and, once I got past the rip-it-off-my-face itchy phase, I quite enjoyed having it. I shall grow a beard again some day. Maybe next winter.
(A star goes to the person who correctly identifies the movie quote in the title, preferrably without cheating.)