I don’t shave on weekends unless I am going out with friends. I hit my forties, then my fifties, and I still didn’t have a full beard. There were to many bald spots and a bit of fuzz. I decided to try growing a beard on the weekend. It’s working, but I still have some bald spots.
This seems childish, I know. I don’t exactly know why this became important to me, but it has. I hope that when I retire in about ten years I will be able to grow a full beard. Not that I plan too, but I want to be able to grow one. It the principal of the thing. I guess deep down it is one of the man things one is supposed to be able to do.
I have always been late at the growing stages. I think my being one of a premature birth played a factor: I always seem to play catch-up, except the colour of my hair. I have white hair. I have long ceased calling it grey.
I started with the grey at fourteen. It never bothered me as my father was the same. By the time I hit my early twenties, I was salt and pepper. I can’t say what it was afterwards because I coloured it (many because of work) until I hit my forties. By then, I was white. I took comfort that my goatee was still mainly black.
This morning I went to shave. With a blade that is, so I had to concentrate on my task in front of the large mirror on the bathroom. It was then that I realized how white my facial hair has gotten.
Oh well. First my hair, now my beard. It is an affect of aging; it is beyond my control. Chest la vie.
—Robert Confiant 30 April 2018