Oh Dear The Trainee Barber

 I first grew a beard in about 1967.   It was a raggedy affair which drew no glory to the very concept of beardedness. It had to go - who wants a moth-eaten chin.

I tried again in 1975.  The Mark II beard emerged in all its red-headed glory.  

Oh such wavy hair; and a beautiful girl friend too.

I was in Chicopee MA in the early eighties. Don was a hair dresser and an occasional worshipper at St. Christopher's Church where I served.  He'd come to my home to take care of my hair.  One time I asked him to shave my beard.

He was more than reluctant to do so, saying that I'd regret it. I persisted.

Within ten minutes of being de-bearded I regretted my choice. Don had been right!  I regrew a beard, now whiter than red.  You all know it.

Or rather "knew it".  

I've been using the same Barber (Patrick's on No. Beneva) since 2006 when I moved to Sarasota.

Pat has taken on his grandson as an apprentice.  Most of we old farts prefer to have Pat to do his good work.

 But the grandson needs to hone his skills. So I used him today.

I wanted my head hair to be buzzed (crew cut). So far so good.

I asked the young man to give my beard a good trim.  I should have been more specific.  Good young man that he is, my prized beard has all but disappeared.   

I need about two weeks of re-growth so that my phisogg will match my passport photo.