Adventures in beards.

I’ve been clean-shaven for the last 36 years. I’ve never really felt the need to leave my face to grow hair, but recently there has been an increase in noise from spouse, colleagues and children to let the face fuzz off the leash. So I did.

For the first few weeks it itched like buggery, but after sticking with it for a little longer the nasty prickly feeling subsided and things became a bit softer. There was much positive feedback; Rach liked it, the kids started calling me ‘fluffy daddy’ and treating my head pretty much like a cat. Even my mum liked it. The intention is (always was, really) to keep growing for the meantime. I mean, what’s the point of growing a beard if you don’t grow a big bushy one? For some reason, this seems to be less popular.

Rach has talked about secret trimmings while I’m asleep, and mum is somewhat less enthused than she was. The kids love the idea still. I am intending to persevere. While I had Tormund Giantsbane in mind, so far comparisons my friends have made include some wrestler, Ed bloody Sheeran and…Prince Harry. If you can believe it two thirds of them were meant as compliments. Fuck sake.