In June, I found myself having forgotten to trim my goatee with my last haircut. My very pregnant and emotional wife asked if I was auditioning as a homeless person, which she indicated I could be if I wanted to look like one. This was said with love. Not having learned my lesson in December, I said I was growing it out in support of her for the home stretch. The goatee made me uncomfortable and got in my nose when I slept. She liked this idea.
By July, people began to comment. With my shaved head and glasses, I felt I looked like an effete Trotskiest considering membership in the Aryan Nations. Less favorable, I think, some suggested I looked like a pedophile and thought I should avoid being within two hundred yards of a school. Some couched their criticism in more polite terms: "You look stupid." Thank you friends and family, for your support.
Here’s a picture of me gazing whistfully into the far ground in my OR garb minutes before Claire was born. I don’t care what you say. That’s hilarious. Followed by one of my holding Claire. Less hilarious.
Shortly after the last picture, my beard was ritualistically laid to rest. There’s video, but Danielle was zonked on Ambien at the time and I had only slept like 12 hours of the preceding 100 or so. Suffice to say, upon review, it was weird.
So, that’s the birth story of my goatee. More has now been said than is necessary. No questions, please.