A couple of months ago, my boss at the big gay department store summoned me to the office to discuss lieu time and holiday. Turns out that as well as my five weeks holiday, I'd somehow managed to accrue 27 hours of lieu time. Which was a bit of a problem, as I currently only slave my arse out to them for about 9 hours a week.
The direct result of this is that over period of two months, I only had to be presentable for about two and a half days; and subsequently stopped bothering to shave because a) shaving is boring, and b) I am fundamentally quite lazy.
Whilst one or two people commented that the fuzziness suited me, I'm pretty sure that they were just being polite because absolutely everyone else asked me why I looked like a hobo - apart from the Pixie, who asked me why I looked like the wild man of Borneo.
It was enough to convince me that a beard is not the sort of thing that I can or should have, not least because I kept trying to absent-mindedly eat bits of it in public. Not a good look. But since it had to go before I returned to work, where a general state of dishevelment and face-chewing is frowned upon, I took the opportunity to try out a few different iterations of hairy facedness.
Tidied up a bit. What I like least about this is that the fact that it's trimmed indicates that I'm actually trying to rock a beard, and therefore definitively failing.
The Pixie: "I love you. But I also want to punch you in your stupid face right now. You douche."
But Homer, the steel industry's been gay for years...
Made famous by Chaplin.
...and finally back to the gawking infantile moon face that ensures I can't buy a hammer from the supermarket without being asked for ID.True facts.
Despite my assurances that I would not stab anyone with it, the checkout woman was only placated when I produced my drivers license - thereby proving that I am old enough and responsible enough to drive a car and wield a hammer.
