So my beard antics have come to an end, much to the relief of most of my friends. Although one, older, woman told me that beards just drive her crazy. I was left speechless. I put up with the expected level of abuse: for example, a friend dared me to linger outside a primary school with a bag of lolly pops to see if I would be arrested. The jokes were fine but the beard itself was nasty. I actually liked the look of it at about the half way mark and what got me was the itch, the feeling of being dirty and, worst of all, the strange looks from people who know me.

The story goes that my dad went on holiday on a boat and his shaver did not fit their plug. After cutting himself with a borrowed razor he decided to let it grow for the duration of the holiday. Thirty plus years later he still has a beard and has often encouraged me to “just let it grow, man.”

“Ha! I’ll show you!” I thought some time earlier this year. I surprised my dad the last time I flew to South Africa. Everyone but him knew when I was actually arriving but it was him who picked me up (he was expecting a favoured client who merited the personal service and fancy car). It was a fun surprise, especially when my dad still had to phone base and check that xyz client was not coming!

Dad did not recognise me at first at the airport. Am running so late, will finish this later and post a picture of me and dad. oh, and now I have a super handle bar moustach.
airport photo?

29.12.2006:

Sadly, for dad seeing a son-like-father, hours after landing I went off to Mozambique. I did manage to get a quick snap of us before Marc hacked most of my beard off ready for a wet shave.

My little exploration into the beardy world has been, well, another little experience, nothing mind blowing. I think I grew a respectable beard and in some ways I have felt older. Old beyond my time. Maybe when I am old and grey I will be bearded once more. Maybe like my dad (less the lightness on top all being well). “Cheers dad!”