Careless Whiskers

I feel so unsure, as I take your hand and lead you to…

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The hair migration from my head to my face started early. I recall washing my hair in my university dorm shower and seeing globs of hair strands on my hands. I didn’t panic because I understood genetics. I understood that I was destined to be bald. My hairline was surely headed toward resembling my father’s hairless noggin.

Fortunately, I accepted my fate without apprehension. I felt no need for a toupee, wig, or hair transplant. I knew my shining personality and abundant sex appeal would be enough to carry me through life undeterred. (nudge, nudge, wink, wink.)

I’ve sported facial hair of some kind or another since I was twenty years old: a Zappa, a Dali, a goatee, sideburns, a horseshoe, a Garibaldi, and a full-grown bushy beard.

There were a couple of times when I was forced to go hairless as required by the characters I played in theater productions, but they were very short stints; as soon as the performances were over, my facial hair returned.

The reason for my choices is simple: I don’t enjoy shaving. The area above my upper lip is very sensitive; therefore, I avoid dragging a blade through it. It ain’t pleasant. It hurts.

My facial hair choices have nothing to do with looks or vanity. I honestly do not care how I look. My charming personality and abundant sex appeal will carry me through life. I keep telling myself that to avoid falling into a pit of depression for being a rather average-looking specimen of a man. Although a woman once remarked that I have nice teeth. That was rather easy to swallow. She may have been under the influence. You be the judge.

Facial hair is often associated with higher levels of masculinity because beard growth is influenced by testosterone during puberty. Men with beards are also perceived as physically stronger, more mature, and older than they actually are. I say baloney to that. I am a weakling, relatively immature, and look young for my age. So there!

I’ve sported a goatee for nearly thirty years. I would grow a full beard if my partner would accept it. Unfortunately, she’s not a fan. The goatee is the compromise. When she goes on a solo trip, I grow a full beard. I love it.

So, Sharon Johnson, that’s my whiskers story for ya. Thanks for the fun prompt. You made me look at some old photos.

Wanna play along? Here are the July prompts from the Challenged:

[embed]I’m Jumping for Joy It’s July Why? I can still jump… not high… but lift two feet off the ground togethermedium.com