A little chihuahua named Carlos

Some musings on Gimme's beard. Like navel gazing but with my beard instead of my cute little hairy insy.

Muesli doesn't work anymore. Pre-facial hair, my slurpy sloppy ways might have meant the odd dribble of skinny milk flowing gracefully down my chin to be wiped nonchalantly away with the front of my deadbeat dad 2002 Dublin Bus Ten miler T-shirt. Not no more. Even a good scrub merely serves to rub the milk into the generosity of my face fuzz, leading to that crusty carpet effect except with beard instead of carpet and fat free milk instead of adolescent semen. And despite being unable to smell anything due to my man cold, I can clearly phantom whiff the curdling of the milk directly below my nose. This leads to the washing of my face, and what a lengthy, thankless fucking snorefest bearded face washing has proven to be. So either no more muesli (unthinkable if not unwritable) or a further drop in my already limbo dancing standards of personal hygiene. How low can I go? Pretty fucking low, pretty fucking happily.

Perhaps, as everyone from Common Law to random Irish chicks living in Italy maintain, beards are sexy. But I gotta tell you folks, on Gimme the sexy seems to have been superseded by the scary. At work, despite my freelance status, I am happy to do my bit for the company by smiling and occasionally even greeting the punters as I wander about trying to remember what kind of shouting it is I am supposed to be doing next. And whereas before the female fitness freaks would greet these smiles with a look of 'Who is this mysterious, cute, if rather large nosed individual? What twinkly eyes he has! I must follow him and see if he will shout at me too..', now the response elicted is closer to 'Aaaah! Crazy psycho axe murderer smiling at me! Crazy fucking eyes! Crazy fucking beard! Run! Run to the hills!' I think I prefer the intensity of the the latter reaction.

I am not a thoughtful person. I am generally in either a state of convulsive panic or one of mindless drug induced stupor. But sometimes, and with increasing beard induced frequency, I find myself being all reposeful, all contemplative. And then folks, something shocking happens. I finger it. I caress it. I stroke it. I stroke my beardy beard. About the chin area. Like I'm some kind of fucking ponce. Not, you understand, in the homosexual sense, but in the pretentious, faux intellectual sense. A big fucking chin stroking ponce is what this beard has made me. Which is fine.

Everything up to this point is, if not positive, then certainly not disastrous. But the look of sheer disappointment on the face of Gay Country Client that, folks, that is disastrous. Like arrows to the heart were each of these words that GCC spoke: 'Ah, Gimme, you've lost your boyish charm!'

A date with the razor looms.