Hirsuitosity? Hirsuitism? What's the plural of that?
I've almost reached That Point in my life. I'm almost 40. Come September acertaindate, I'll be 39, and that puts me close enough to 40 for that whole Mid-Life Crisis thing to start hitting me. And it has. And I've already been reacting to it. I can feel my warranty voiding itself even as we speak.
No, I haven't bought a Corvette. No, I haven't found a 16 year old fashion model with a body like a 12 year old boy to marry. And no, I haven't started wearing my shirts unbuttoned down to my navel so you can see my 24k gold razor blade necklace and chain. I've done that since high school.
What have I done as the outward expression of the event of the middle of my life as a human bean? I've changed my beard.
Gasp in shock and awe you well may. Go on, I'll wait.
Got it out of your system? Good. Let's proceed then, shall we?
I'm sure most of you remember the Florida Incident, during which time I grew a full beard and maintained it for, oh, a month or thereabouts. I gave that up not because I was failing miserably at it, which I wasn't, not really, but because I blended into the crowd too much. Any man who still has his head attached to his neck can grow a full beard of some sort, by the simple expedient of not shaving. That route, therefore, quickly became the wrong direction for me.
You see, I can't do things the easy, cheap, disposable way. I am a man whose needs include pens that have to be refilled from a bottle, clocks that require winding on a weekly basis, and vehicles that don't have niceties like computers, power steering, or air conditioning.
So, I'm growing a handlebar moustache in addition to my goatee.
That's right. Handlebars. Long, elegant, and requiring attention to look spiffy. Twirling and twisting often to make sure they're straight and pointing correctly. We're talking moustache wax, eventually. Oh yeah.
Vanity, thy name is Irrelephant.