In the summer of 1981, my wife and I traveled through Europe. Being the lazy sort, I decided to stop shaving, and I haven’t started since. I got married, had three boys, and watched them go off to college, none of them ever seeing my face. I was like the phantom of the opera, but without singing talent. The thought of hiking five months without my normal weed whacking trimmer had me worried. I was pretty sure without a clean start, I was going to look like I was ZZ Top, or more likely the crazy old guy in Life of Brian who breaks his vow of silence defending his juniper bushes.
So in the hotel, with my wife holding a jerky video camera as she laughs at my new found face, I begin anew. I figure at the very least, I could keep my son Brian and his girlfriend Bri moving, if only from fear as my face marches behind them.