I don’t grow a beard. Thankfully it grows itself. This allows me to achieve something visible to all with very little effort on my part.
I like it. It’s a mask, its warm in winter, handy with an open face helmet on a motorbike and often it gives people the wrong impression of me. And there is much fun to be had in challenging peoples first impressions.
If it starts getting in the way of my joy of food though, I treat it like a farmer would a hedge that encroaches on a right of way. I hack it back.
Sometimes though, like this morning, I just feel the need to shave it off and start again. A metaphorical burning of the stubble. A facial spring clean. When I’m really old I think I’ll take it’s growth more seriously. There are some epic beards on wizened men and I find these bearded elders the most interesting of people. Their sponge-like faces soaking up stories, history. When I grow up I want to be like them.