I keep playing with my beard.  Despite it being a feature of my chiselled jaw (lending me something of a ruggedly handsome visage) since October last year, I still find its presence intriguing.  It’s there, on my face, a short bristly carpet of cozy that keeps my cheeks from feeling the cold.

Occasionally a hair grows long enough to begin tickling my lip, though it is soon plucked; if several attack at once, they are routed by a scissored counterattack.  My investment in a beard trimmer has been a wise one, allowing for a tidy, neat trimmed face for when I need to look extra smart.

I think it suits me, though certain friends have told me it ages me.  For my part, I think this can only be a good thing, since even bearded, my age is generally put mid-twenties at a push.  I wasn’t sure about it at first, and even now it still has a few patchy spots that refuse to fill in, yet on the whole I think I shall keep it for now.

It has, quite literally, grown on me.


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