Yesterday I spent a few hours cutting, with inadequate scissors and shaving with a brave, hand-powered Gillete (even with three blades it was not meant for such a task), my two year old beard.
Beard when it was about 1 year old. Photo by Samuel Copeland
People no longer recognize me. Admittedly, I am in a town where no one knows me, but nevertheless these strangers do not recognize me. I feel like they should be saying, "Oh my God, you shaved." My face feels different. The skin is cold and clammy. My cheeks can now gauge wind velocity with impressive accuracy. The skin is red and bumpy like (fill in the blank with something red and bumpy).
I miss it.
It is a day later and it has already started to grow back.
A note on the title: to some I was known as Black Santa. To some white people.