Shorn Star

I haven’t been beardless in a while. And while I’m not technically completely cleanshaven—I used clippers instead of a razor—it’s still showing a lot more face than I’m used to.

It wasn’t a plan, it just happened. That’s how it always happens. I’m not much tied to a facial-hair identity, but I must say that a beard hides a myriad of chinful sins. To say nothing of the jowels. Good lord, when did I become this?

Pardon this histrionics. I’m really not wigged out by it, of course. When I get called “Daddy” by those well-past-old-enough to drink, you kind of get used to being older. Or in gay years, just Old.

None of this is to say that I don’t still giggle like a little girl when I watch Korean melodramas. Or that I don’t see myself as honestly not much different to how I was at any age.

I lost my hair (well, above the ears at least) a long time ago so that was pretty much settled. The only big change that happens to me physically—besides the intentional getting-in-shape phases—is my facial hair. The face that looks back at me is a bit of a surprise. Then again, the silver hair makes the blue eyes bluer, and in the more aged adult man’s face I can still catch glimpses of the little girl I used to be.

And that’ll just have to do.

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