I have been considering growing a beard.
I did try to grow one out many years ago, when I was but a strapping young lad out of school, but I did not have the patience to follow through–despite how little effort is actually required. Days would go by and I would recognize less and less of myself in the mirror–and then there was the itching. I would recall staring enviously at aged gentlemen with their well-kept, well groomed, imperious beards. Magnificent (though thinking back on it now… my obsession with such a trifling thing as overgrown facial hair is somewhat troubling). Some sort of symbol of their authority and station, I probably thought. Now, having left that green, younger me behind after all these years… I see it as a change. Something different. Nostalgia, maybe? No, I doubt it.
I’ve felt so very static recently. The air, these clothes, this house… the formulaic antics of that girl–those girls, I mean–and those other two. I’ve played the game long enough to know the rules and the extent of the field. I grow tired and weary of it.
There’s an odd comfort to it, though, I must admit. Because… it is nice to be able to count on something.