To the Dangerzone!

A week or so before Christmas, at our official Planning Center eat-stravaganza (aka Christmas Lunch) we were talking beards.

The boss's wife doesn't like them, so he never grew one, now it's peppered (salted?) with enough white that he doesn't want to grow one - he doesn't want to look older any more.

Boss #2 has a goatee, and feels like a full beard makes him look like a chipmunk with acorns in his cheeks.

I beamoaned the fact that while my dad looks like a yeti when he stops shaving for a week and my brothers (both older and younger) can grow decent face socks, I am cursed with the whiskers of a 14 year old. While I could grow a mean John Taylor neck pillow,



it's patchy at best on my cheeks, and I've always been wary that the mustache part would be dangerously close to pervert territory.

So as I cried in my hummus about the sad state of my facial hair my co-workers consoled me. Boss #2 said that since I have never gone past 4 days of growth I don't really know how it would look, it could fill out. Since we were at the front end of a three week period devoid of meetings and a managerial mandate to avoid slacks had just been issued I thought now is as good a time as any. So I got the permission/encouragement from the boss men to look like a homeless man for the next few weeks to see if my facial hair would pull through.

It has now been about a month, and the first few weeks were rough. I almost shaved every time I stepped in the shower (I shave in the shower, it opens my pores and softens my hair. What my whiskers lack in quantity, they make up for in stiffness). But I endured.

Last night at dinner at my dad's house my little sister said "Christopher! you look like Kenny Loggins!"

I think she had this Kenny in mind



not this Kenny



But I'll take either.