I gave into vanity over the weekend. To be fair, that’s always an uneven contest. I’d love to dispute it, but I’m always mindful of how I look (despite indications to the contrary). Many to most things I couldn’t give a fuck about, but looking ugly, that’s a no-no.
And I was looking ugly, no two ways. I got sick of looking in the mirror every day and seeing an old man looking back at me. My hair was at that untidy, in-between length, and the iso-beard – well, I was starting to look like Ernest Hemingway. Not as silvery-white as his beard, but nearly as fluffy. I was prepared to endure a period of relative ugliness. I’d steeled myself for it – but then it got too much, and in one fell swoop I shaved the beard off.
The good news is that it made a big difference. The full beard made me look about my true age, which is getting fucking old. The problem (or the blessing) is without it, I look about ten years younger – and I’m accustomed to looking younger. In the raw looks department, you’d have been reaching to score me as a four before I shaved – now I’m about a seven if I squint hard.
I haven’t got rid of the beard altogether. I’ve got a mo and an artfully shaped small beard on my chin and running a little way along the edge of the jaw. I intend to shape the chin beard further into a blunt point. It’s greyish still, but in a noble sense, he said hopefully.
It may be that this improved appearance coincides with my hair looking better – though whether it looks better, or only appears to look better now that the beard has gone, is philosophical conjecture. It’s not where it needs to be yet, but getting there.
Anyway, my ego is happy now, for the time being. I feel a little dashing again. I know I shouldn’t 😦